


Ravens Don't Have Homes, Only Nests

by MagnusAntoniusBarca



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 62,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12095247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnusAntoniusBarca/pseuds/MagnusAntoniusBarca
Summary: Meera isn't happy with Bran's goodbye and decides to do something about it. Littlefinger makes new plans while Jaime finally arrives at Winterfell, hoping for redemption.





	1. Chapter I

Staring at the ragged, used clothes of skin and fur in her hands, she remembered what he had told her.  
“Thank you. For helping me.”  
These words brought a memory back into her head, one that had recurred as of late: On the evening of her 14th nameday, her mother decided they had to talk. She wanted to tell about the adult life of a noble lady, even if they were Crannog. At some point, she said, a day would come when she’d find herself interested in a boy, and he in her. And when that happens, they may wed. Of course, the young daughter knew the falseness of this; marriages are of political nature. The talk about liking boys would never become relevant anyway, she had assured her mother. They were Crannogs, after all. 

Time, or at least most of it, would tell she was right. Never did she meet a man, her own age or older, trying to advance with her. That truth wasn’t exclusively for knights or lord’s sons, but just as much for soldiers, mercenaries, squires, travelers, or someone else who might mistake her for a commoner. Most could recognize her as a Crannog, and thus no one showed affection. Not that she had given any of them much opportunity anyway – as with her Prince’s sister, she would much rather ride and hunt alongside them. 

That state of romantic avoidance had lasted her entire life. In her 20 years she had been far too occupied to care about such matters – hunting, her skills with the bow, her alliance with the Starks, her crippled Prince, her weak brother… All had left no room for herself. Now she had a room at Winterfell, but not for long. She clenched the skin clothes in her shaking fists, tossing it across the room.

Her Prince claimed to know everything. So did Leaf and the others, even in the brief talks she’d had with previous The Three-Eyed Crow had said so. Clearly, surely, this wasn’t true. For the first time in her life, she had truly cared for someone outside her family. Hell, she had mercy-killed her own brother for him. If he knew everything there is and was to know, how could he punish her support with such vague thanks? If he knew everything, how couldn’t he tell those words would hurt her? If he knew everything, why didn’t he care for the feelings she felt for the first time in her life?

A cautious knock suddenly came from the door. “Lady Meera?” a voice spoke. 

“Come in.” she answered, quickly laying the thrown clothes on the bed.  
The tall, beautiful Tully-haired Lady Stark entered slowly through the door, closing it behind her. 

“Lady Stark” Meera said, frustratingly attempting a curtsy. “What can I do for you?” 

At first, the second-born Stark seemed to ignore her question. She walked slowly, throwing looks here and there around the room. Her lips smiled and opened: “I’m not sure you should refer to me as Lady Stark. That title isn’t suitable for me. Call me Sansa.”

Meera nodded in response, waiting for her visitor to continue.  
“Our fathers were close friends, I’ve heard. Eddard would oft speak kindly of Lord Reed. Odd you never came to any feasts.” Both were aware Meera knew the latter implied a question.

She had caught Meera at an unlucky mood. “No, I don’t think it’s odd. We are Crannogs.”  
Ignoring her tone, Sansa went on with triviality. “I’m glad we found you some more appropriate clothing, Lady Meera. Those rags must have been an obstacle on your journeys.”  
There was truth to that statement. In the last few years, she had only been able to change attire twice. Wearing comfortable, fit clothing was a delight she had forgotten all about.  
“I hear you’re going home to your father at the Neck.” Sansa said, receiving a nod from Meera. “Why?”

Her voice feeling thick, she gulped before answering. “I have to be with them when the war comes”

Sansa did not seem convinced. “There is plenty room here for you to stay in. I couldn’t help but wonder why you leave us so shortly after arriving here. It just seems strange, considering all that you’ve travelled. And what’s more, I don’t think my sister would mind you here...”

Meera was unsure of what to answer. She felt the now recognizable feeling of disappointed anger boil up inside her – as if she wanted to shout rage and give up at the same time. “There is no need of me here. I’m the heir to the Greywater Watch, now that my brother’s gone. I’m needed back home.”

Sansa sighed. “And what of Bran? After all, you’re the one who knows him the best by now.”

Meera smiled sadly, remembering the words and his expression while speaking them. “I wouldn’t be so sure…” her ironic smile disappeared. “Had you asked me a few months ago, I would’ve agreed.”

The Lady of Winter fell stepped towards Meera, sitting down next to her on the bed. The height difference was considerable, Meera noticed. “Do you know why he’s like this? I remember him a happy boy, but that was of course before the fall. He always climbed, made jokes, teased… Now… I’ve not seen him smile since he returned.”

“Neither have I” Meera admitted. It hurt to speak so truly, she didn’t want to – but the fact seemed unavoidable. Sansa stared at her, confused with a hint of fright. “Not in a long time. He would sometimes, a few years back, when I told him stories. He knows all of them now.”

An awkward mood ruled the room. Hesitatingly, Sansa broke it. “I thank you. House Stark thanks you, Winterfell thanks you. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you earlier, that I didn’t even ask who you were or why you were with him.”

Meera shrugged the words off. It wasn’t Bran who had sent her, it wasn’t even herself. It was simply a courtesy of thanks – a fallacy, so Meera could tell her father she had been thanked and treated well by the Starks. A shame the alliance between house Reed and house Stark had come to this. 

“Bran also needs you.” 

The words cut her thoughts short. She was taken off guard, with her mind far away from the room she was in. Sansa’s ignorant statement only made her more annoyed. “What makes you say that? ‘cause clearly, he doesn’t.”

“I don’t know him or you. But I know my brother’s nothing like he used to be, or what he should be like. And I know you’re the only one who knows him, the only person who he can connect to. I beg of you, please don’t leave.”

“Do you know what he told me? ‘Thank you.’ That was the extent of it. After all that I did for him, that was his only response, which of course only came after telling me he didn’t need me.”

Much to her surprise, Sansa placed a firm hand on Meera’s. The Crannog lady received an intense stare from her liege lady. “He needs you. He may not admit, or even know it, but he does.”

‘He needs you’. The words rang clear within her head. They had been spoken to her when she was at the brink of feeling completely superfluous and empty. Initially, she’d blamed this feeling on all the moss they had lived off. When she realized the well-cooked meat she had been served at Winterfell had not filled that emptiness, it confirmed what she already knew, not that deep inside. 

“You can have this room or any other in Winterfell. I can place you next to Bran’s, if you want.”

Too proud to openly admit, she only nodded yes in response. Sansa smiled, stood up and went to the door. “I’ll have your things brought to next his room. You should write to your Lord father.”

She had to say it. “My lady” she started, making Sansa turn just before exiting her room. “Thank you.”

“As your liege lady, I command you to call me Sansa from now on.”

 

Winterfell seemed so great to her. Despite all that she’d seen, The Wall, white walkers, wights, Children of the Forest, Winterfell stood out amongst all of those. It seemed so vast and wonderful – perhaps it was because she had grown up in a flowing castle amidst a swamp, but the great castle of the North appeared endless, almost fantastical. There was no way for her to find way herself, and she had to consult both soldiers and servants to know which way to go. 

Everybody seemed to have something to do besides her. She simply strolled around the castle, while others were deeply occupied by various tasks. Most of them seemed to ignore her anyway, and she hadn’t mustered the courage to seek out her Prince. To pass the time, she settled with bow, arrow and some practicing targets – after all, it had been some time since she’d needed those skills.

The clothes she had been given were too tight for her to properly stretch the string of the bow. As a result, the first arrow didn’t even hit the target. Embarrassed, she quickly turned her head in search for anyone who might find the failed shot entertaining. But alas, Father was not here and every other was too busy to even take note of her. She shot once again, still annoyed at the limiting attire she was wearing. This shot was more successful than the previous, but not by much; at least this time she hit the board. As she remained unsatisfied and embarrassed, she considered how silly she was actually being. It had in fact only been her father who had ever supported, or even cared, for her archery abilities. Jojen couldn’t really have cared less and Mother had of course been against it. Here at Winterfell, her father wasn’t there to judge each shot and no one else could be asked to care. All of those who lived here had been used to Lord Eddard’s second daughter anyway, so why should any care for a foreign Crannog firing her bow? 

When some Vale soldiers came to the shooting range to train, she deftly left. Perhaps it hadn’t even been their intention to force her from practicing, since they didn’t even seem to notice her. Nevertheless she felt misplaced besides them. Littlefinger was observing from a balcony above, talking to Sansa and a Vale solider. She didn’t pay them any mind, and darkness was beginning to arrive; she might as well inspect her new room. On her way to it, she passed two guards who were staring condescendingly at her. She felt small between them, and she was sure they spoke about her after she had gone pass them. 

Her room had quickly been established – most of it had probably already been in condition, but what few possessions she had with her were laid on the freshly made bed. It was a rather large room for a foreign guest, but it was next to her Prince’s, so it had to be. She had not seen him since their ‘goodbye’ and honestly, she wasn’t too confident she’d like to speak with him just now. For the moment, a truce between the two was needed. Instead of spending her thoughts on him, she spent them on organize her room. It was different from her room home at Greywater; this was clearly intended for a person of noble birth. The servants must’ve thought her a more ladylike woman, as there were brushes and neat dresses in her wardrobes and cupboards. A large mirror hung upon the wall, a thing she had never used. Her mother had one placed in her room, but Meera continuously kept sneaking it out of her room – that feud went on until Father took his daughter’s side on the matter; seeing mother accepting her defeat had been a great victory. 

Bran had told her of pipes in the walls, filled with warm water, placed all around the castle. At first she found the idea quite ridiculous, but reality would see her doubts be proven wrong. The walls were in fact warm, despite the now very cold outside. She wondered whether or not the walls had always been like this. 

To impress her new hosts, Meera thought it a good idea to make something out of her on the first evening. She attempted to brush her hair, but it proved far too unruly and curly. There was simply no helping it. Then the dresses were put on, but not one single of them made her feel comfortable – they were made to compliment a womanly body, one of which Crannog ladies rarely had; Meera was no exception. Just as she was putting the clothes she had received at her arrival back on, a servant girl called her through the door. She had been invited to dinner with the Starks. 

This was far from the first meal she has had to share with members of the Stark family, but it was the first one with a Vale lord. And now she was to dine with two Vale lords, no less: Lord Petyr ‘Littlefinger’ Baelish and Yohn Royce. The two Stark sister were also present – but no Bran. 

“Ah, Lady Meera.” Littlefinger said, rising from his seat. “We thank you for bringing home Lord Stark.”  
The smile he wore while talking, made him look like he enjoyed a joke only he was in on. Meera noticed Royce glaring at him. ‘Lord Stark?’ she thought. The idea of her Prince being Lord and ruling an entire kingdom seemed unnatural to her. “Unfortunately, he couldn’t be here with us tonight.” Baelish continued.

“As much is evident from his absence” Lord Royce said, still staring at Littlefinger, who now turned his head. 

Before speaking, the oldest Stark sister took the word. “We reserved a place for you. Here” she said, gently pulling a chair next to herself.

While there was awkward silence in the room, Meera didn’t pay it much attention. She was far more focused on Arya Stark – the wild and uncontrollable daughter of the Stark family. The second Stark daughter wore almost the same expression as her brother; cold, emotionless and stiff. Meera found herself wondering why as she took her seat. 

“I heard you planned on leaving for the Neck. I’m sure Lord Reed would understand your change of heart.” Baelish said with his that sly smile of his on his face. 

“I remember him.” Lord Royce said. “Always by Lord Eddard’s side and capable on the battlefield. A good man.”

“I’m still deciding” she answered, earning a somewhat worried look from Sansa. “I miss my Lord Father, but my allegiance is still to my-… Lord Stark.” The title was hard for her articulate. It just didn’t fit. 

Baelish smiled. “We understand. Loyalty can be an odd thing, Lady Meera. I find myself in a similar situation, you see.”

“Is that so?” Royce muttered, raising an eyebrow. 

Littlefinger turned his stare from Meera to smile at Lord Royce instead. “Indeed it is. But surely, you can relate yourself, my Lord? Both of us have left the Vale, our home, to uphold our alliance with House Stark. I reckon Lady Meera feels exactly the same as us.” His gaze returned unto her, awaiting agreement. 

Unsure of what to answer, and whose side to take, Sansa came to her rescue. “My Lords, let’s first let Meera choose for herself. Know you’re always welcome at Winterfell.” As she said this, Meera noticed how Arya was glaring intensely at her sister. 

The servants came with smoked pork, a thick gravy, wine, both honeyed and not, alongside all sorts of roasted vegetables. Despite never having drunk real wine in her life, she poured herself a cup. It was a mistake though; she coughed a little too loud as the liquid burned down her throat. Both Sansa and Littlefinger smiled at her, and she wasn’t quite sure how to take it. The reactions from Lord Royce and Arya were different, however: both of them remained untouched. On Royce’s part, he was clearly too occupied looking, and probably thinking, suspiciously of Littlefinger. Arya simply didn’t seem to care. Meera wondered how Bran would’ve reacted – only, she knew the answer already but preferred not to think of it. 

Meera had to ask. “Why is it Lord Stark isn’t with us?” She asked, looking mainly at Sansa. “If I may ask.” she apologetically added in haste. 

They all waited for Sansa to answer. Putting down her knife, she answered. “He told me he would spend his evenings in his room, or at the Godswood.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention.”

“Perhaps he needs time to compose himself after such a long journey. Some boys are like that – especially when forced from his home at such a young age.” Baelish broke in. 

“Even if what you say has merit, you must admit he has been acting strange, Lord Baelish” Royce stated. Of course he was the first argue with Littlefinger. 

“Think of our Lord Arryn. How would he fare, had he been through the same as Lord Stark? What if he had had to fight wildlings, wolves and gods knows what else beyond that wall?”  
That seemed to make the proud lord Royce loose his words in defeat. Why, Meera hadn’t a clue. 

“It wasn’t just wildlings and wolves” Meera sputtered. ‘Shit’. Why did she have to say that? Hadn’t she realized whom she was talking to? 

In a middle of all the silence, the next to speak hadn’t uttered a word during the entire dinner. “What else?” Arya said coldly.

What was she supposed to answer? She couldn’t tell the truth – they would all think of her as crazy, just as crazy as her Prince. She could just picture guards and servants speaking of the “crazy crannog lady”. But then again… What would that matter? She was here for Bran, not the guards. 

“Dead people.” She turned to look Arya directly in the eyes. “Walking skeletons with dead, cold flesh hanging from the bones.” She dared not look the others in the eyes – no doubt they were rolling their eyes at her. But Arya didn’t – her eyes did not steer from Meera’s own, and they appeared to take her seriously. The longer the two kept eye contact, the more apparent it became how scary the face of the wild Stark daughter was – how vacant, how different, how deadly. 

“At any rate, if you decide to stay at Winterfell, you ought to write your father” Sansa suddenly stated, breaking the two untraditional ladies’ shared gaze. 

“That will be problematic.” Littlefinger answered before Meera could do it herself. 

“I asked our guest, not you.”

“He’s right – no raven can make its way to Greywater. It’s a floating castle – making it more protected.”

“Then how are the Reeds kept informed on the matters of Westeros?”

“We’re not. Not really. Which is probably why you haven’t seen us at any feasts”

“… How will your father know that you’re safe?”

“Maybe he won’t.” She said, brushing off the issue. “Bran is my concern right now.”

“What is it you want with him?” Arya spat. 

Meera was a bit taken back by the sudden, harsh response. “Nothing you care about, I assure you.”

“Arya, don’t get mad at her.” Sansa interrupted. Arya switched her eyes between her sister and their guest. “She is our guest.”

“No, I want to what she wants with our brother. We don’t know her, nobody in this room has ever known her.”

“I’m sure our king would’ve let her stay as well.”

“Our?”

“Yes, our.”

No one said a thing. The two sisters were staring daggers at each other; Lord Royce looked awkwardly at the windows, while Littlefinger had leaned back into his chair, twirling his chin beard. Meera just looked back down on her almost empty plate before rising from the table. “In the Godswood, you say?”

Sansa nodded. 

Without another word, she left the dinner table. 

 

The early winter snow fell slowly into her curly hair as she wandered through the Godswood. The entire concept of a Godswood felt strange – after all, she had grown up in the exact opposite, with a castle constantly surrounded by forests, not forest within the castle. 

However, it was only logical that this would be where Bran sought solace. He had been sitting right next to a tree for almost a year and having seen gods know what through them. Long ago Meera had already accepted her role as the protector of the important, not as the important themselves. Sure, she had found herself jealous of her brother – his powers, the attention he was given. Where she had to listen and obey her father, father listened to her brother. Her own solace became hunting and fighting. But since she’s been doing little else the past years, she wasn’t so sure if she still had one. 

A bird bashed its wings among the leaves and branches. The noises proved the quiet as a foundation of this part of Winterfell. The silence felt wholesome. Snow crackling under her boots, the leaves whistling, birds flying – it all reminded her of the North. The far North. It was no wonder why Bran then would claim this place as his refuge. 

Her heart jumped violently at the sight of her Prince in his wheelchair. Heat rose to her head, from both anger and excitement, creating blushed cheeks. He had been placed just in front of the weirwood tree, a pool just in front of it. The boy appeared unmovable, just staring into the face cut into the bark of the tree. What was she supposed to say? Now, she had found him, but didn’t know exactly what next. She could beg to stay, stand up to him, slap him, she could kiss him. Ultimately, it depended not on her, but on the words her Prince chose. 

“Don’t mind my sister.” he stated as she approached him. “She’s not really angry with you. She has just changed a bit over the years.”

His back was still turned to her; he hadn’t even bothered to turn his head. Though composing herself, her right fist became clenched - his ‘goodbye’ had not been forgotten, and most of all, hearing his voice reminded her of it.

“You told me you would be leaving Winterfell.”

She gulped. “I did.”

“... But you haven’t.” 

She couldn’t answer.

“Why not? Lord Reed knows something of importance. His position gives his words value. You could tell hi-”

“Look at me.” The tempting ‘please’ did not escape her lips. 

He slowly raised his head, not yet turning it. Meera refused to open her mouth and ask another time. Instead, she stepped closer to him, realizing he was studying the tree in front him. She could’ve slapped him right there and then. 

“I used to find them scary. Especially this one. The face gave me nightmares.”

She closed in on him, just standing a few feet away from the wheelchair. The bank water of the pool had a thin coat of ice on it, freezing the sticks in place. One could easily break through the trapping ice, and the stick would flow freely once again. Of course, you’d have to pick it up and keep it, in order to prevent the stick from freezing into place again. 

“But I never had any reason to be frightened of them. I just needed to get to know them.”

Her sword itched to be drawn - not to kill, but to be heard. It certainly would make a statement, but she knew it wouldn’t help. She sighed as she took just one more step closer to her Prince. Yet he refused to turn his head. He refused to look at her. 

“You plan to stay. There’s no need. Your father has been waiting for years.”

She violently reached out for the armchair, turning it, forcing their eyes together. Even now, he dared showing her those dead, hollow, blue eyes. Her own must have been in stark contrast to his, as she could’ve sworn they were burning red with desperate anger, had she been asked. In one quick move, she raised her hand and slapped him. Not hard, but not too softly either. At least now she had made him look at her.

“Stop! Just, stop!” she shouted, her voice cracking at the last word. It didn’t matter if anyone heard her. As a matter of fact, the entirety of Winterfell was allowed to listen every single word she said. “How can you be like this? All that we’ve done for you, everything we have been through. All… For this? I just…”

The Lady heir of Greywater Watch was breathing heavily, glaring fury into the eyes of Lord Stark, to which he did not seem to respond. She grabbed his coat angrily, awaiting herself to begin shaking him. She didn’t. His gaze had turned from cold to indifferent, however small that change may be. “You are right. I will be staying at Winterfell. ‘My Prince’”

With that, she left him alone. Starting with walking determined, she began almost running back to her room. She needed to get away from him, even though she knew he never really would leave her mind. His damned, ungrateful, frustratingly cold face would be plastered all over her thoughts, both asleep and awake. They had been together for too long for him to just disappear from her mind. He had literally been what she kept herself alive for, of course she couldn’t just leave him now. He had known. He had known this, yet still urged her to return home. Little was he aware, her home was no longer Greywater. 

The reflections of her actions crept up on her as she was lying in bed. Her hand and head remembered the slap; it had felt right, correctly timed and deserved - yet still wrong somehow. Not because there would be talk about it all over the castle the following day, nor because he was her Prince as well as Lord Stark. No… The guilt was rooted somewhere else. 

Bran had never mentioned the nightmares before. Visions, yes, scary ones as well. But he had never called them nightmares. The boy she remembered would have told her about them. Then again, he had hardly ever told her of his weaknesses - he’d much rather tell of the time he had climbed something or when he had done something ‘impressive’. Her lips turned reluctantly turned upwards at the memories.

It was all the fault of that bloody cave. Whatever it was her brother had been so insistent on reaching, it had better been worth it; so far, it had cost Meera the life of her brother, her friend, and in some way, her Prince. Despite having seen them herself, the living dead seemed so far away, so distant. They weren’t her primary concern. Bran was. 

As her eyelids and head grew heavy, wings bashed just outside her open window. A raven flew through it, landing on the headboard of her bed. It didn’t screech or irritate her. Nor did it try to - it just stared.


	2. Chapter II

“Sansa, I’ve told you” she begun, once again. “I don’t know anything about these matters”

“No, no, I know…” Sansa muttered, a hand on each side of her face, staring down at some blank papers. “I’m sorry. I just forget, sometimes…”

Being a Crannog, Meera had never faced such issues. At the Neck, the Reeds were greatest house, all others a subject to them. Granted, her family wasn’t of largest power, and since not even Father had often been exposed to the intrigues of political struggles, she had absolutely no clue on handling them. Ironic, as her motive for staying at Winterfell was so very connected to its lord.  
It was as frustrating to look at as it must have been for herself, seeing Sansa, perplexed and almost bewildered at what next to do. As much as Meera wanted to help, just as much could she actually do anything about it. The ones closest to her couldn’t assist; her sister was violent and had equal political cunning to Meera, her brother was absent-minded and cryptic in his choice of words, and her bodyguard was purely just that: a bodyguard. The only one who could provide decent counsel on her position was that sleek Littlefinger; it was modest to say that Brienne and Meera had a shared disagreement with their lady, concerning both the intentions and honesty of him. 

“They want you as the one to lead them through the winter, My Lady” Brienne said, with both concern and pride in her statement.

“They crowned Jon as their King, not me as their Queen.” Sansa replied, shifting her stare from the papers onto Meera. “Bran is the trueborn son and heir to the North anyway. He comes before me in the line of succession.”

Meera dreaded having to answer. On one hand, she wanted to support Sansa. On the other, she felt, reluctantly, loyalty towards Bran and his position; of this Jon Snow she knew nothing of, aside from what Bran had told. Perhaps it would simply be for the best to remain quiet and not take party. Brienne sighed.

“Your brother is… Distant, My Lady.” She had another pause. “I do believe you to possess superior skills as ruler of the North to those of your brother. I mean no offense, My Lady, but I know you know this.” Apologetically, she turned her eyes to Meera’s. 

Meera gave a nod as answer, admitting to Brienne’s statement. Her gut told her it was reasonable and the most expedient. Her heart however, told a different story. 

Sansa leaned back in her chair. “We need to call in provisions from the other Northern houses. Otherwise we won’t last the winter.” Both her companions simply nodded in agreement; neither had any clever advice. She went on to explain, in search for help. “It’s necessary we appear supportive and understandable in our request”

“Appear, My Lady? What do you mean?

“It’s needed in diplomacy…” Sansa trailed off.

Despite her complete lack of social experience outside her family and the companions on their journey North, Meera sensed the disconnect between the Lady of Winterfell and her bodyguard. Brienne stared at her lady with confusion and a hint of disbelief.

“What I meant was, that, we have to be polite and not exactly demand the supplies from them.” As the awkward silence ruled the room, Sansa grabbed a quill, dipped it in ink and continued. “So, any ideas?”

‘No’ Meera instantly thought to herself. There was nothing she could contribute with, and she knew Brienne was on the same boat as she. In order to distract herself and avoid giving meaningless advice, Meera noticed the small snowflakes softly planting themselves on the window, melting on impact, and running down till they hit the stone wall. Luckily, the winds were mild and almost graceful in nature, so that one could easily enjoy the outsides. She suspected that her Prince was out there, down at the Heart Tree, dwelling on the past, the present… Whatever his mind was on, wherever his ravens were. Perhaps he could help Sansa with writing that request, but she had already begun writing.

While Sansa was scribbling frustratingly away, Brienne and Meera exchanged looks over her head. Their looks were fueled by just as much frustration as Sansa’s writing, but none of them knew how to act on it. Meera’s job had always somewhat straightforward, if incredibly tough at times; protect, hunt, build fires, find a path, and the like. All the heavy thinking had been done Bran and Jojen. The matters of which they occupied themselves with, however, were literally beyond Meera’s capabilities. She had stuck to what she knew, could see and feel. The only resemblance to intrigue she had been through on the journey North, had been the dispute between herself and the Wildling woman Osha, which Bran with haste had dissolved. If the Bran of today had been witness to the same, he likely wouldn’t even have shrugged it off. 

The door opened with Brienne’s squire’s, Pod, head and shoulders becoming visible. “Lord Baelish, My Ladies” It would seem that the personal assistant had arrived. 

The smug smiling man, not much taller than herself, stepped inside, heading straight for his Tully-haired lady. Meera had wondered of the specifics of their relationship, but had not dared ask; it would only make her as uncomfortable as if Sansa had asked Meera of her and Bran’s. 

“Who are you writing to, My Lady?” Petyr started, glancing at the scroll.

“The seats of the Northern Lords.”

He quickly bowed to be at the same level as her. “No no, Sansa. What have I told you?”

Laying down the pencil, she stared back into his eyes with some coldness. “You’ve told me a lot of things, Lord Baelish.”

“Yes, yes I have… But right now I want you to think of the consequences.”

“And what may they be?” Littlefinger gave a glance at both Meera and Brienne, before looking back at Sansa. “They stay.”

Reluctantly, he nodded and continued. “If you write these letters, it will be met with displeasure and viewed as a strict command. On the other hand, if the various lords write to their homes themselves… It will indeed be quite less difficult to fill the grain stores of Winterfell.”

Meera couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose at the advice. What would that help? The Starks were their liege lords, their king was even of their family, bastard or no. They had to comply to their calls - she knew Father would do so without question. 

“Wouldn’t signing the letters herself help push her authority?” Brienne asked, skeptical of Littlefinger.

“It would, yes. But…” he answered, before being interrupted.

“But it wouldn’t help anything. Signing the orders myself could decrease the respect they have for me. It’s Jon who’s King.” Sansa said, vaguely brushing of the issue. 

“If I... “ Petyr continued, resting his eyes on Meera, making her unsettled. “May speak with you, alone, under four eyes?” he said, looking back Sansa. She nodded.

Most people were taller than Meera, in fact, only children were shorter than her. That fact she was quite accustomed to and it never did bother her. But while not exactly bothering her, intimidation struck her as she stood just next to her outside the door, dwarfing the Crannog lady completely. Of all mortal she had seen, Brienne of Tarth was one of the last she’d like to fight.  
Besides living at the same castle and seeing each other several times in the few days Meera had been at Winterfell, she had not spoken much with the personal guard of Lady Sansa. This could be boiled down into neither of them having an appropriate opportunity to do so; Brienne was always by Sansa’s side assisting and obeying, compared to Meera, whose current motive for spending time with them was to avoid becoming isolated from others. While that may not be the sole reason, it remained the one she had convinced herself of. 

“What’s that sword?” Brienne asked, almost awed.

“Hm? This?” Meera answered, unsheathing the sword which had been found up North. “It’s something I found on our journey.”

“Let me see it” she requested, which was granted. “It’s… Do you know what this is?”

A look of curiosity and confusion was her answer. 

“Who did you acquire it from?”

“No one. I just found it and took it… Far up North, beyond the Wall.”

“It’s Valyrian steel, my Lady.”

“I’m as much a lady as you are.” Meera said, smiling. She hoped that they shared views on being called ladies. 

Brienne smiled back. “Which means it’s incredibly strong. See it’s dark colour?” As she handed the sword back to Meera, she pulled out her own. “Look. The shapes on the blades are similar.”

Meera could clearly see what she meant, but not how it made much difference. “They’re both just swords anyway.”

From the way her eyes blinked, it was clear she had not expected such a nonchalant answer. “I-I suppose. But know that sword is something special. Don’t lose it.”

“Of course.”

With complete silence between two of the three unconventional ladies currently stationed at Winterfell, it was possible to hear low voices from behind the door. One could only guess at what the two were planning, or more accurately, what Littlefinger was planning. 

“Your father was very close friends with Lord Stark, I’ve heard.”

“That’s true. They fought together during the Rebellion.”

Brienne made a smile and a chuckle. “I don’t think my own father cared much for Crannogmen. I can recall him called them cowards and afraid of battling.” 

“He wouldn’t be the first to do so. Both my mother and father have told me of common insults they experienced along the roads. It’s quite common, I believe.” she said, excusing Lord Tarth. Insults as these were common to her by now, and didn’t really weigh heavy on her. 

“Which only goes to further the respect I have for Lord Stark, and by extension, Lady Sansa. It sets the Starks aside from most other houses in Westeros.”

“It does.” she smiled. “I suppose that’s why we’re both here.”

“A sound reasoning. Did you ever… Meet Lord Stark?” she asked, plainly searching clarity on the honourable figure.

“Actually I have. Only once, though. It’s many years ago by now. My father went out to fetch him, while Mother was making sure I was ready and fit for the Warden of the North. So he arrived, but I don’t remember much of him… Must’ve been nine or ten years of age at the time. Don’t even know what he was doing at the Neck, but I recall liking him.”

“I would’ve liked to meet him.” Brienne said, almost pride in her voice. “I’ve heard nothing but things I appreciate of him.”

“Bran used to refer to him all the time. Father always said so, Father always did this. It seemed to be the ultimate judgement, whether or not Lord Stark would have approved of something.”

“I mean no offense, my- Meera, but I’ve found myself wonder why you haven’t gone talked to him yet.”

She had found herself wonder the exact same thing. “I don’t know. He’s busy with… Something.”

Brienne frowned confusedly, still looking serious. “Not with being Lord Stark. You ought to speak with him.”

Before internally articulating an answer, the door behind them was opened.

“It would seem Lady Sansa sought your company, my Ladies.” Littlefinger said with a smile, exiting before any of them could enter.

The two had not written anything - all scrolls were just as blank as when they left the room. Surely, they had been discussing their matters for many minutes by now. But judging from Sansa’s face, the talk had not been completely fruitless - which in itself was a worrying thought.

Brienne was the first to speak. “What did you speak of?” she said, almost demanding.

“He gave me advice on the matter we had discussed.”

Meera and Brienne exchanged knowing looks again. “As your protector, I have to warn you against him. He’s not to be trusted.”

“I know. That’s why I don’t do so - but he can provide decent advice nevertheless.”

Just then, a bird flew away from the window. It had not been there when she left, so it must’ve arrived in that space of time. Obviously it could only have been one sort of bird. But why had it been important for him to observe that conversation? Sure, Littlefinger was a rat, but that wasn’t news. Perhaps it wasn’t a raven anyway.  
She knew too well to not accept that last thought. He’d watch over the entirety of the castle till the end of his days. He would always be informed on what went on in his castle. This had probably kept him busy, too busy to seek her out. They, or rather she, had avoided contact with her Prince since the slapping incident, but perhaps it would be about time to repeal that. They would have to sooner or later anyway.

A knock came on the door, this time not from Pod. 

“Maester Wolkan.” Sansa greeted. 

The old maester was panting with his hands on his knees, clearly having held up a pace for some time. “I-it’s your brother, my Lady. He says it’s urgent.”

“What is?”

“That the ravens are sent.” Wolkan said while straightening his back. “To the maesters of the Citadel.”

“Containing what?”

“He should probably be the one to explain. I was asked to bring quill and paper to his chambers; Lady Arya has taken him there.”

 

If one had not known they were siblings, it would be almost impossible to see from the interaction alone. As Meera, Sansa and Maester Wolkan, the two Starks awaiting on them were in separate parts of the room, not giving off the sense a close relationship. When all three of them were inside the room, Bran glanced at the four people in his bedroom. A perhaps slightly conceited hope, Meera noticed Bran’s eyes rested on her a little while longer than on the others. 

“Bran, what is it?” Sansa inquired. 

“I’ve seen the Walkers march East.” he answered, shifting his look from his sister to Meera. His blue eyes held equal amounts of emotion to those of the White Walkers. “We have to warn the maesters. They’ll listen.”

“Seen? As in, your visions?”

“I saw through the eyes of the ravens I had sent North.”

“A warg” Maester explained in vain - everyone present were quite aware of what Lord Stark was. As no one replied, he stepped towards Bran. “Shall we write the letter then?”

Silence emerged in the room as Maester Wolkan readied quill and paper. Bran didn’t look at neither maester nor any other person in the room - as if he was staring at nothing. Others said nothing, letting the exchange between Bran and Wolkan roam freely without disturbance. The thought of Walkers attacking the Wall seemed unreal to her. They couldn’t break it, could they? But since Winter was here… They could simply pass by it. A thought that disturbed her much more than the previous.  
Being on the receiving end of Arya’s stares didn’t help, which was probably the intention of them. The two had not spoken much, in fact nothing, since their few words at the first dinner. Of looks such as the ones right now, there had many. They were always suspicious, accusing, cold. Of course Meera would have been so herself, had there been some stranger claiming to be close with Jojen, so at least she could understand Arya. 

“The ravens will be here soon.” Bran stated as Wolkan rose. “Send the letter the moment they arrive.” He then turned his head at his oldest sister. “You should sign it too.”

“Yes, I will.” she answered stiffly and with the same amount of compassion with which she had been requested. When she laid down the pen, Wolkan immediately left the room with the signed letter. 

The glare having grown almost angry, Arya broke the initial silence. “Why did you slap our brother?”

Meera had wondered this herself. It had come a culmination of frustration and disappointment turned anger. On whether or not it was a regrettable action, she had not yet decided. 

“Arya, this again?” Sansa answered in defense of Meera. “I told you already it doesn’t matter.”

“It does. What else would? Oh, I know: whatever the other Lords would be complaining about.”

“You’d think you would have gotten over such petty issues by now.”

“Petty? It’s not petty, sister.” she said, rising and stepping closer to her sister. “Jon is still King.”

“Who left me the responsibility of the North while he was away.”

“Bran is by right the ruler of Winterfell in our King’s absence. He is Lord Stark, sis.”

“The Lords of North answers to me, as does our allies of the Vale. They came North to fight for me, to place Winterfell, our home, steadfastly in Stark hands. Bran has other things to worry about anyway.”

“They came because Littlefinger commanded them to. They follow his orders” Arya squeezed her eyes slightly. “As do you.”

Sansa did impressively well at maintaining a facade. One feet further away from her, and Meera never would’ve noticed that Arya had hit a nerve, an unsecure spot. Despite still being browbeaten, Meera decided to aid.

“Sansa is more than capable of handling affairs here herself.”

“She is.” Arya answered coldly, turning her face from Meera back to Sansa. “That doesn’t mean she should - hereditary right seem to be an issue for her. Perhaps she is a little too capable.”

“Jon will soon return to Winterfell.” Bran said suddenly, quieting the two. While hereditary authority probably wasn’t the reason the two sisters silenced, it was odd for Meera to witness the boy she had defended and spent every day with for the past few years to suddenly be in charge. 

The sudden statement made Arya’s eyes widen. “When?” 

“Soon.”

“Stop being so cryptic.”

He only looked up from table where the letter had been written and into the eyes of his sister, not giving an answer. Already accepting it wouldn’t get her further to an answer, she gave up on continuing asking. Instead, her eyes resettled once again on Meera, slightly intimidating the older girl, as ever.

“You never answered my question.”

Meera raised her eyebrows in hostile confusion at the utterance. She was aware that whatever answer she provided, it would not be ratified. She initially turned both mind and face to Bran forhelp, but her dearest Prince had turned his look towards the window. Arya took one step closer and raised both eyebrows in expectancy. 

“Arya. Don’t.” Sansa called. 

The maniacal Stark daughter glared silently at Meera, dramatically intensifying the atmosphere of the room. As if wasn’t already toxic enough. Arya carried the underlying threat forth by placing a hand on the shaft of a dagger in her belt.

“You’re with her, hm? My sister?” she gave Bran a glance, before turning her eyes back on Meera’s. “Did she offer him as a reward?

“Arya!”

The tomboy Stark did not fail in ignoring her older sister, as she had done hitherto. 

“It’s alright, Arya.” Bran said placidly, finally looking at the dramatic scene taking place next to him. “Meera didn’t harm anyone. You might.”

Meera could tell that Arya felt betrayed. It was her own fault, of course, but grievous feelings arise in persons who’ve done wrong nonetheless. In disappointment and rage, Arya deftly left the room, Sansa following right behind, both without a single word. Bran stared at the firmly opened door. 

At the moment, her gut was in battle with itself. One part wanted to thank Bran for stepping in, hindering further escalation of the conflict between her and Meera; in other words, protecting her. The other part told her that he had made no considerations on her behalf, that the words were simply a product of attempting to keep peace in the room. The latter part also wanted to punch him for not doing or saying any more than that. It was in her roots to let positivity win whenever possible.

“Thank you.” she meekly said, as there wasn’t mustered enough acceptance within her to say it loud and proud. 

It came as no surprise as he didn’t answer. What could he have answered anyway? Her Prince instead just stared her dead in the eye. No implied hatred was behind the uncaring glare, but if she had not known his ‘condition’, she might have been led to believe it did.

“Why did you stop your sister? She supports your claim as Lord Stark.” she argued, knowing he cared ever little for that position.

Bran simply shrugged. ‘Admit it’ some deep emotion commanded her mind to think. 

“You’ve told me not to mind your sister… A request which has become hard to maintain.”

“She’s not the sister I once knew. Back then she was kinder.”

‘I hope so’ Meera wanted to say, but dared not - nothing good would come of such a comment. “I just hope Sansa is safe from her.”

“You shouldn’t bother with such thoughts. They are my responsibilities. Arya won’t act upon her bitterness.”

“There is little stopping her from pulling that dagger.” Meera knew her response was rather pointless, but it had nothing to do with the actual matter at hand. Finally, she would hopefully have a conversation with Bran.

“I won’t let it escalate to that. As with -”

Meera’s heart jumped. Did she hear correctly? Again, her two gut parts were at war over the issue. A different feeling, sourced from the hopeful part, formed her next words. “What?” she asked, being very deliberate in making the question sounding unexcited - she was convinced that that goal failed horribly.

“Nothing.”

That answer prompted incitement to repeat her stunt from a few days past. It wouldn’t have taken much for Bran to give an answer which she could have lived off for an entire week, but fate would he refused to grant her such. 

She refused to back down. “No, what were you saying?”

He sighed. “As with you.”

‘See, was that too hard?’ an amused and satisfied voice flying around in her mind said. No matter how reluctantly, how stiffly or how hesitant the words came, it was still a victory. Granted, sooner a pyrrhic than a great one. A victory nonetheless. Relief and confidence filled her.

“Why are you not sleeping in your chambers?” she asked, almost rhetorically. The answer didn’t really matter, she just needed to say something.

“I need to watch the North beyond the Wall.” he said in such a grave tone it put a slight damper on her. “And the Heart Tree helps me.”

“You don’t need that tree to see North.”

“No. But it makes it easier.”

“Then at least dine with us.”

“The North needs to be watched.” 

“Not all the time. Honestly, what can happen in those few hours spent away from that Weirwood tree? The Walkers are indeed a threat, but you don’t have to be pointlessly exhausting yourself as a result. You don’t need to be close to the tree all the time.”

His eyes calmly rested on a candle beside her, not answering. Clearly, he didn’t want to. 

“It’s winter. It’s much colder in the lower levels of castle - your own chamber could be more comfortable than those you sleep in at the time.”

“I don’t sleep.” he admitted with a sudden conduciveness. “Not really, anyway.”

“You’ve told me before, long ago. In your sleep you warg and have visions, too.”

He nodded. “The ravens are my sleep. I don’t just watch them in my dreams - I am them, I control them. It’s hard to truly sleep when that’s applicable.”

“Have you been watching me, then?”

Despite knowing everything there was to know, it would seem that the question surprised him. Meera could tell it awoke at least some emotion within him; possibly embarrassment. 

“’Cause the last couple of days, I’ve had a raven nearby me most of the time. Sometimes I’ve let one into my room at night.”

‘But you already know that, and not because of visions.” she triumphantly thought, smiling at her Prince. 

“Shall I take you to the Heart Tree?” she asked, ending the conversation. Again, he simply nodded.

He thanked her when she placed him in front of the tree. All the way down to it, Meera had smiled. Her guts were no longer in war, one have had a decisive victory over the other, ending today’s conflict. Guards and servants had stared almost suspiciously at the two Northern nobles, probably due to Meera’s Crannog background. There would be whispers and talk at the taverns and amongst servants soon enough, but they mattered next to nothing to Meera. Today had developed to be worth more than being weighed down by such pettiness, even if Sansa or Lord Royce would comment on it at tonight’s dinner. 

As she silently left him, doing her best not to disturb whatever they had created that day, her stomach was filled with warmth. Sure, Bran didn’t join them for dinner that night, but the watch of a raven through a window did.


	3. Chapter III

Changes can come suddenly in people. In such cases the changes are rarely disconnected or out of place from something already founded within the person, but are simply triggered by something nourishing that specific foundation. 

It was Meera’s wish to bring forth that fundamental character which she knew Bran to possess. Despite her attempts, this rule of change seemed inapplicable to her Prince, but she wasn’t one for giving up. Since she had brought him to the Heart Tree a week or so past, there hadn’t been the desired, and optimistically expected, response from him. Meera herself however, remained determined. 

There was another person, to whom the rule could be successfully applied: Arya. When Bran had stated Jon’s upcoming arrival, she had not been the usual cold girl Meera had known her as. Her glare had gone from hollow and intense to focused and indifferent. Furthermore, she had caused no disturbances or issues with anyone, but could be found training with her tiny sword more often than before. Changes do come gradually, after all. 

All the lords and the comparatively vastly outnumbered ladies were loosely lined up in the courtyard of Winterfell. While carrying him to the Heart Tree earlier the same morning, a practice which had by now become habit, he had vaguely mentioned that Jon Snow would arrive in a matter of hours. Meera had then hurriedly announced the same to Sansa, brightening up both her and her sister.

At the centre of the frontal line stood Sansa, Littlefinger and Arya on her right, while Brienne stood just behind her lady. Bran sat in his wheelchair on her immediate left, with Meera half behind it, half beside it. Next to the chair stood Yohn Royce, Lyanna Mormont and Lord Glover. 

It had been Sansa’s request to attempt at a somewhat formal line-up, despite her sister arguing Jon would find it odd and unsettling, but the lords, probably since having declared him king, supported Sansa. Meera didn’t mind either proposal, as long as she could meet him. It would be weird, bending to someone of who she had no knowledge. At least when Jojen and she went out to find Bran, both Father and her brother had told everything they knew about Bran and the Stark family. Perhaps this Jon Snow wasn’t so unknown to her after all, if all she had heard about Ned Stark was true. 

Meera looked down at her Prince, who stared blankly at the gateway, waiting, trying to read a reaction off his face. His expression bore very little emotion, as ever. Lately, after affection had begun taking off, that face had become source of some frustration within Meera. It was the face she wanted to change the most at Winterfell, in the whole of Westeros, but ever since they had left the cave nothing could. 

There was nothing spectacular about the arrival of the King of the North. He was followed by four men, none of which Meera could recognize. All of them were, except the king himself and one other, older men. They were all clearly involved with warfare, in some way or the other, seeing as every one of them were carrying a weapon of some sort. The whole line-up kneeled as the king rode closer, including Meera herself. 

“Stop it already” the king uttered at the kneeling crowd before him. 

With Arya being the first to stand up straight again, her face visibly broke into a mix of happy and relieved emotions, hugging her half-brother, king and long-lost friend. Arya whispered something to him in a voice so low, even the surrounding silence couldn’t allow hearing what they spoke. 

When Jon wasn’t getting hugged by her little sister any longer, Meera could study his face. The man had many handsome features, with his ruggedly firm face and expression showing the seriousness a king ought to have. In spite of this, it stood clear that he felt uncomfortable in front of all his subjects.

He then turned his head to Sansa, but quickly continued to Bran. 

“It’s good to have you back.” Sansa said, smiling. 

Jon didn’t give her an answer right away. His eyes were focused on his half-brother sitting in a wheelchair in front him. “I thought you were dead.”

“I almost was.” 

Preceded by a few seconds of further silence, the king bent down to hug his brother tightly, closing his eyes. As they opened, Meera’s and Jon’s met for a short moment. He turned to Sansa almost immediately afterwards. 

“I won’t stay for long. We’ll have to advance North.” he said in a low voice.

“Why?” Sansa asked, wrinkling her brows. “Winterfell needs you.”

“It does. But not with my governing.”

“Then how?”

“We’ll have time to discuss it later.” he answered, brushing off and delaying the discussing of the issue. His face became worried as it returned to Bran. “Now, or…?”

“If you don’t mind.” Bran answered and looked at his sisters. “We will be at the godswood.”

Meera instinctively took grip of the wheelchair, turning it to drive him to his desired place. Besides from taking him to the Heart Tree, it was as if Arya and Meera had taken turns in pushing the chair all around Winterfell. When Jon looked at Meera, confused but not condescending, she initially took it as an insult. Without either of them uttering a word however, there was no mistaking the exchanged look. 

Bran ‘somehow’ knew they both wondered about this and that of each other. “She’s Meera Reed. She helped me when I was up North and brought me back to Winterfell.”

“Up North?”

“I’ll explain later.”

Meera couldn’t help but find such a wait unnecessary. “We went North, far North beyond the Wall. Bran had to become the three-eyed-raven.” The latter part was chosen to deliberately confuse Jon, hopefully forcing Bran to speak up. 

He didn’t though. 

“We even saw you at one point, while we were being held captive. It was by some shaggy couple of huts.”

“Craster’s” Jon immediately answered, shifting his attention from Meera to Bran and back again. “You were there?”

“If you and the Watch hadn’t arrived, I don’t know what would’ve hap-,” The memories cut her off. The dreadful fear she had felt on that night had fortunately not been on her mind for ages. Now they were coming back, caused only by some random conversation, started by her. She gulped, unable to continue. 

Despite getting attention from a handsome man for once, she genuinely wanted him to stop staring. He couldn’t’ve known of course, so he wasn’t to blame. 

“If you hadn’t come along, Meera might have been…” Bran must have sensed Meera’s mind and muscles tense up in fear from the dreadful memory. “Something terrible might have happened.”

Much to Meera’s happiness, that seemed to be end of it. But most of the damage had already been done, creating visible pictures of her anterior captor, who had been threatening Jojen and toying with Meera, all while wearing his disgusting, malevolent smile. The genuine fear he had incited in her, which was still capable of installing a light dizziness years after, had her legs shaking. If Jon noticed or not, if he acted upon it or not, she did not care. It could only increase her focus on the memory, so she opted in favour of just pushing the wheelchair faster till they arrived at the Heart Tree, at the centre of the Godswood.

The King of the North stared mindfully at the weirwood, brushing his fingers on the surface bark of the tree. “I remember this clearly. I didn’t even go to visit the godswood when I had retaken Winterfell.” he said, now looking at Bran. “What is it you need to show me?”

“You’ll see. Know it’ll change you. Touch the face.”

The king obeyed his younger brother, causing his eyes to turn white, as Bran’s did when he was having visions or warging something or someone.

She found herself wonder, once again, what it might feel like having visions. All of her life, people very close to her had been having them, but she had no experience in enduring them, only what they did to those who had them.  
Instead of just sitting, she decided to walk around the Godswood of Winterfell. So far, she knew only the route straight to the Heart Tree, but little of the rest. It was quite large, easily several times larger than Greywater, which became almost a negative. Its size was too vast to feel truly homely and secure, something she would’ve otherwise valued.  
Smoke came from the chimneys of Winterfell. The king’s return would be celebrated, or, at least officially so; the Northern lords had appeared malcontent with Jon’s decision to ride south, down to the Targaryen queen, the Dragon Queen, as some had called her. Neither Jojen nor Bran had ever spoken of dragons from their visions, but she didn’t find it hard to believe they existed, with all that she’d seen. The want to see them in person, she probably wasn’t alone in having.  
All the while going around the Godswood, a raven was close by all the time. There was almost always one near her. At first, she had thought that there was a raven at every vantage point and by every person close to Bran, but she was proven wrong several times, whenever a raven would accompany her when she had just parted ways with someone. As to exactly why he kept watching her, she was unsure. To protect or to observe or simply to watch her, she admittedly enjoyed his distant and unpersonal company. It made her wonder whether or not he was watching her all of the time, even at inappropriate occasions. Feeling the heat rise from the mere thought, she returned to the two men sitting by the Heart Tree.

Jon seemed utterly shocked, almost frightened. Whatever conversation they were having stopped when she approached them, causing the king to excuse himself and deftly leaving the scene. He walked off firmly, looking at the ground, a hand on his sword. 

“Wh-what happened? What’s wrong?”

“I showed Jon who his mother was.”

“… and?”

“He became upset.”

She sighed. “Why? Why would he become upset from learning that?”

Bran turned his eyes towards his fingers, with which he fumbled. “Your father knows this as well.”

“What the big secret? Just tell me.”

“His father is not the same as mine.”

“... But he was Ned Stark’s bastard son. Everyone knows that. He even admitted that himself.”

“He was lying.”

“To who? About what?”

“Jon is not who he thought he was. He’s the offspring of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.”

This was quite unfathomable to Meera. She of course they lots about both of them, but not that they had had a child. And her father knew this? How, and since when? Surely Bran was mistaken. No, no, of course he wasn’t. He never was. What was she even supposed to make of that information? It wasn’t as if it had significance to her anyway. 

“Are you sure? I mean…”

“I know it.”

“So… I suppose no one can know of this.”

“That depends on Jon. If he tells Sansa, or any other, he won’t remain king.”

“Are you accusing your sister of taking power when she can?”

“Yes. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It doesn’t matter.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“We’ll see.”

“You’ll be declared King instead of Jon, if he decides to tell.”

Bran didn’t answer. This was going to be one interesting feast tonight. Neither wanting to continue the same subject nor actually caring too much, she went on to investigate her wonder.

“Are you always watching me?” 

“No.” he answered a little too quickly, disappointing Meera.

“When are you not?”

“Whenever it would be unproper.”

“If you say so.” she said smiling in disbelief, suspecting the truth was otherwise. “Did you write to Jon to come to Winterfell?”

“No.”

“Then why did he come to Winterfell? He even knew something was up.”

“I visited him in one of his dreams and told him to come.”

This was a power Meera had not heard him possess before now. Despite its practicality, the idea was quite frightening. She had hoped that whatever happened inside one’s head would remain the safest space in the world. 

“Can I trust you to not to invade mine?”

“Yes.”

“How can I know?” she asked teasingly, not expecting a real answer. 

“I’ve already told you.”

“What do you mean, you’ve already told me?”

He fumbled with his fingers again, providing time to ignore the question. “You should sit at the dais tonight.” 

“All its seats are occupied. Don’t worry, I’ll manage.” she assured him. 

“There will be one left empty.”

She didn’t doubt him. 

 

Despite all high lords being gathered at once to honour the return of their king, it was not a feast. Both Jon and Sansa had been against hosting a feast at the dawn of winter, knowing full well the provisions and grain stores would thin soon enough. Recently having called in supplies from the various castles and cities of the North, did much to help incite not feasting. 

The ‘Great Hall’ at Greywater Watch was far from great compared to Winterfell’s. Of course she had noticed this before, but when it was filled with all the lords and servants, its size really shone. There was easily room for many more, as presumably needed years back, before the War of the Five Kings. Now, they were all dead and new kings and queens had replaced them.

Meera had initially protested when Sansa offered her a seat at the dais. As she had argued, the feeling of appearing preposterously arrogant filled her when she glanced out amongst the crowd-like gathering in front of them. The dais was actually rather limited in its size, only allowing for six people to be placed. It felt wholly unnatural taking the place of the king’s half-sister, but Sansa had insisted. Arya could be found among the four companions that had accompanied the king on his route to Winterfell, chatting and even grinning feverishly with one of them. 

Jon and Sansa had taken the two central spots, with Bran and Meera on Jon’s side, while Sansa had Littlefinger and Lord Royce (whom had objected himself) on hers. Personally, Meera could pick out several others present tonight who were far more important than herself, at least politically. The pressure with which Sansa had asked her to join them though, made Meera believe there may be more than political incitements behind picking whom to seat at the dais.

It was an odd contrast; those at the long tables talked, drank and laughed endlessly. Those at the dais, who supposedly ought to be closer and have more in common, talked very little. Jon had been brooding and was highly untalkative. Bran had only given short, muffled answers to Meera’s questions, which were quite irrelevant and important, to speak truthfully. Only Sansa and Littlefinger seemed to be able of talking with each other. They were always whispering though, giving off an uninviting vibe. However, Meera doubted the Northern lords and ladies paid much attention. 

This had been the first time she had eaten properly with Bran, and his appetite was noticeable in its minuteness. He didn’t touch the wine the servant girl had poured for him, nor much of what he was being served. Perhaps years living off whatever Osha and her could hunt or gather for the group, had created some modesty in eating, and even a distaste for doing so extensively. Meera herself was quite modest in her eating habits, never requiring or asking for much; something she had learned growing up on animals and plants of the swamps. 

Jon suddenly raised himself and went to Bran, whispering something in his ear, which Meera decided not to try eavesdropping on, out of respect for the two men. The king gained little response, a mere shrug and a nod, before heading back behind his chair. 

He bumped the table hard twice, causing a stir on whatever was planted on it. “My lords and ladies, I have something to announce.”

The hall grew quiet and people found a seat, all attention focused on their king. Meera was glad the eyes weren’t on her. 

“I won’t be staying in Winterfell for long. I didn’t come back to govern.”

Confusion and muffled chattering followed his statement. “Then what?” some rough Northerner shouted from the middle of the room. 

Jon sighed, gathering strength. “I will be going North.” he announced, causing further chattering. “The South needs to see the danger that Westeros is facing, and Cersei won’t come to reason until she sees it first-hand.”

“So what do you propose?” Lord Glover questioned, clearly irritated with the king’s decision.

“That a few capable men join me in going North, to capture a wight or a white walker, so that it may be shown to both Cersei and Queen Daenerys”

“Queen Daenerys!” the stubborn voice of a young girl exclaimed with an almost disgusted tone. “I’m sorry your grace, but since when did you begin referring to the Targaryen by her self-claimed title?” Lady Mormont looked around the room, looking for support, which she clearly gained. “I don’t claim to capable of making your decisions, but I’m not alone in believing going South was the wrong decision.”

“Daenerys has shown leniency towards helping the Northern cause.”

“At what cost, may I ask? That we all fall on our knees once we have all survived winter?”

“I did not declare her my queen yet.”

“Yet! I must object your grace; we were all against you venturing South – we feared that she might kill you, leaving us without a king to follow. But she made you on her side, which is much more dangerous.”

The room roared at the accusation, in which they found truth and confirmation of their suspicions. 

“We named you our king, in the belief that you might lead us through winter, not so that we would bend the knee to yet another Targaryen.”

Jon looked defeated, looking down at the ground. Few in the room knew what was really going on in his mind. In fact, it was probably only Bran, Meera and Jon himself. She imagined the position the king found himself in. She would hopefully never be able to truly relate, but it was easy to both see and sense his current plight, which was made much worse due to his position. 

“Don’t do it, Jon. Winterfell, the North and its lords need you to rule it. You retook Winterfell; don’t leave it behind.” Sansa said, with a firm yet slightly desperate voice. Littlefinger was quick to immediately whisper something in hear ear. 

“Jon is your king. It’s his decision what is best for us, as well as what he wants to do.” Arya, now standing, said. She cast a cold glare at the man, with whom she had spoken to most of the evening, and went on to stare down at lady Mormont. Neither gave off any hint of steering back. 

“Lady Arya speaks truly, but she does not recognize our suspicions.” Glover stated. “He is going on a complete suicide mission, and we cannot afford to lose our king in these times.”

“Perhaps it isn’t such a bad idea asking this… Targaryen queen for assistance. From what I’ve heard, she has three dragons. And fire does quite well against ice.” Littlefinger discretely added. “They could prove quite useful in a fight against the creatures of the North.”

“Targaryens can’t be trusted. No Stark has ever gained much from dealing with those inbreds” another Northerner called out, gaining the same support as Lady Mormont had; it was clear to see which way this was going.

“Who says the king has any desire to ally himself with her? Perhaps, if he is smart, he seeks only the aid of her dragons. Is that wrong?” Littlefinger said, smirking at the king, who was now in front of the dais. This made all eyes rest on him once more. 

“We could order the wildlings to do whatever it is you seek North of the Wall.” This time it was Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, who gave his counsel. Some nodded and “ayed” at the suggestion. 

“The Free Folk have done enough for my cause already.” Jon said in defence, however in vain. 

“Excuse me your grace, but from what I know, the wildlings are scarcely the reason for the defeat of the Boltons. They have been little but a hurdle for the North ever since the Wall was built, probably even before that.” Lord Royce argued. Meera could feel the tension rising in the hall, creating an atmosphere of genuine unsafety. 

“It doesn’t matter what was before. Jon has the best knowledge of the North, more than any other born South of the Wall. It’s his call.” Arya said with anger in her voice. “No one here recognizes the very title you’ve given him! You should be ash-“

“Arya!” a voice, previously unknown to Meera, called. It came from the man she had spent the evening with; a young and handsome man, muscular of built and almost bald, despite his young age. To Meera’s, and most likely every other’s surprise, Arya listened to him and sat down, arms crossed and fury across her face. 

“Your life is needed. We can’t afford to lose you. Not now, not yet.” Lady Mormont closed the discussion with. Meera poked Bran’s arm in order to gain his attention, asking him for a solution to the situation through mimics with her face. Apparently, he seemed to understand, nodding softly. 

“Jon.” he said indifferently. It would seem nothing more was needed, since Jon gulped and nodded slowly at his younger half-brother. 

“I’m not your king.” Jon proclaimed, completely silencing the entirety of the room. “Yes, I’m a bastard, but not the one you think.”

Silence ruled. 

“I’m the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I was conceived when Lord Stark was South and fought Ser Dayne.”

People had no idea on how to perceive or even fathom this new-given information. It would be an odd thing to say if it was untrue, yet it seemed so unreal. 

“I therefore renounce my title as King in the North, and declare my successor Brandon Stark, as Robb would have, had he been alive. He is the only trueborn son of Ned and Catelyn Stark. May I now go north?”

He left the hall without uttering another word; only his footsteps could be heard. This wasn’t exactly what Meera had expected or hoped when she urged Bran to step in. Of course, she wasn’t really aware of what she actually expected to come from asking anyway. But Bran as King in the North? Never in thousand years. She knew he would never wholly accept the title, but that would only leave a political vacuum. And one wouldn’t have to think far to realize who would fill it. 

Chaos ruled. Ale and wine went into the air, shouting and announcements came together to a myriad of loud, inaudible voices, and a few swords could be heard drawn. Meera noticed that Sansa was starting to rise up and leave, but Littlefinger placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. Bran simply sat and stared, his mind most likely somewhere far from here. Some punches were thrown, and it was interesting to pick one particular man and follow his journey through the brawl. She noticed one of them was struggling with an attempt to escape. He was doing his best however, but kept getting pushed and almost rolled over. Had they not been clad in fine clothing and armour, one could be lead to believe they were in a tavern. 

Guarded by a middle-aged man, lady Mormont placed herself up front, just before the dais, turning around. It was Sansa, however, who managed to calm down the now less furious crowd.

“My Lords! You should all be ashamed. You’ve behaved quite barbarically, in the very halls of Winterfell.”

Lady Mormont took the word. “Jon is no longer our king. South he proved his true allegiance, and apparently, heritage. He should never have been given the title.” she turned to Lord Royce, then to Sansa, then back towards the lords and ladies. “Lord Royce was right when he said the wildlings did not win the battle of the bastards. The knights of the Vale did, when the situation was most dire. They had not arrived, had it not been for the request of Sansa.  
“Jon has left us a successor, Brandon Stark. I say we declare him King in the North, given he is the successor of both Robb and Ned Stark.”

Meera stood stunned, almost frightened. All focus was on her and Bran, but it was only her of the two who seemed to have noticed they were given every bit of attention the hall was capable of giving. She bent down to inquire an answer from him, but he seemed very distant, probably having inner visions. Before he or she could articulate a reply, Littlefinger spoke. 

“I mean no offense, my lords, but it comes as no surprise that lord Brandon is not himself. I’ve spoken personally with both him and his companion, the lady Meera, of this. Now, I do recognize him as the rightful heir to the North; but he appears somewhat… unfit for the task. Would I be wrong in saying so, Lady Reed?”

Flustered, Meera had to answer. “uhm, no, my Lord. Lord Bran has much on his mind.”

“Shouldn’t the position then pass to the one who is the most fit for it?” he turned to Sansa. “One who’ve shown to be most dutiful and able for the task?”

Some reluctant nods came here and there, mostly due to the fact it was Littlefinger proposing what they all had in mind. 

“Of course only, if Lord, or should I say, King Brandon does approve?”

Meera had to shake Bran lightly for a response. He gave Littlefinger, Meera and Sansa long stares.

“Yes. I do. I have no need of being king.”

Littlefinger sat down with a victorious expression on his face. 

“Then I think we should declare Sansa as Queen in the North. Long may she reign!” Lady Mormont said. 

“Long may she reign!” the hall shouted simultaneously, with exception of Meera, Bran and Sansa herself. She was smiling instead, almost smirking.


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Prepare yourselves, this chapter is honestly quite bad if you ask me. I just had to put it out and get over it.

”I thought you knew Cersei. Of course she’ll come North with an army.”

“I know Cersei, but she’s already got her hands full. If, and that’s if, she ever defeats Daenerys, she’ll send her army to Winterfell. But that’s an awful lot to assume.”

“You are the one who told me to prepare for every outcome. So why shouldn’t this count?”

“Cersei hates you, as she hates everyone who has ever mistepped in the Red Keep. So yes, be on your guard for her army. If you fear so much for her power, perhaps you could prepare in advance.”

“And to that you suggest?”

“There are several possibilities.”

Meera still wondered as to why she kept founding herself at these councils. It would seem no one could really give her a fulfilling answer, not even Bran or Sansa – perhaps because there was none. Discussions could drag on forever, until Sansa was either told or realized herself that it was only Littlefinger and her who were discussing, then dismissing the others.  
There were others in the room, besides those four: Brienne, Arya, Lord Royce, Lady Mormont, all the important lords and ladies. Consistently absent however, was Jon Snow. Since he announced his parentage he was rarely seen.  
When the councils had begun, the reality of her lesser position had started to truly dawn on her; she could add literally nothing that would extend the value of the subject. At times she stated her opinion, to which a few would nod, then continue on discussing, essentially ignoring her statement. As a result, she had almost completely stopped commenting on the matters. 

“No matter what, it’ll be years till we need to worry about the South. Jon’s on Daenerys’ side, and Cersei isn’t incompetent enough to send north half the forces needed to conquer us.” Sansa declared.

“But can we be certain that her brother won’t steal half the Lannisters and consolidate the Riverlands now that the Freys are dead?” Littlefinger inquired. At this, Bran shifted his look from Sansa and down at his own lap, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room, Meera included. 

Bran had never spoken much of Jaime Lannister. On the travel north, he had only been mentioned vaguely a few times, though every one of the party knew what he had done. Meera had found it unnecessary to confront him with the fact, and had thus never even referred to the Lannister, in fear of angering or saddening Bran. In his current status, there had only been a few moments wherein he had appeared emotional. This only strengthened the oddness of his action.  
It felt almost desperate to reach out, even if was just for his arm. But then again, maybe she was beginning to become just that. 

He answered with an estranged expression, so confused it almost seemed annoyed. Their eyes stayed locked, while the others in the room were blabbering away – they became but mere blurred voices in her mind. That happened more often than not, at these meetings; politics and defences would be discussed, some subtle aggressive comments were made (primarily at Littlefinger) and at occasions, Bran was consulted. But after some time, Bran ended up distracting her completely from the debated subjects. Initially, it didn’t have to be him that caught her attention, but it consistently ended in being drawn towards him. As to why, she couldn’t admit to herself just yet.  
With a hand placed on his, she nodded, questioning him. He nodded back at her, still keeping eye contact. 

“Perhaps we should consult Lord Reed at the Neck.” Littlefinger said, gaining the attention of Meera as his eyes turned to her. “Concerning the defence of the south.” 

“My father is already doing his to defend the Neck.”

Littlefinger smiled condescendingly. “Yes, I trust Lord Reed to defend us. However, we might need him to up his guard… All things considered.”

“What things?” 

“I’ll make sure he knows.” Bran broke in. 

She removed her hand from his, giving him a serious look. “No, what things?”

Just as Littlefinger was about to speak, Sansa answered instead. “There are still problems in the Riverlands. We don’t know what will happen, but we have to be prepared.”

“I wouldn’t bother too much for this, were I you, Lady Meera. Please, do not worry.” Littlefinger assured her, his tone having turned softer. “Your Grace, you are aware of your uncle? He’s technically the heir to Riverrun.”

“Lord Edmure. Surely he is dead by now.” Sansa said, clearly doubting. 

“He’s not. He remains a prisoner.” Bran stated, not showing any grief for his uncle’s plight. 

“A prisoner? The Freys are dead.” 

“A prisoner to Charlton rebels. The Riverlands have dissolved.”

“Ah.” Littlefinger started. “So it would seem. Always happens, when the Liege lords are overthrown. We ought to seek out Lord Edmure.”

“And put him back on the seat as Lord of Riverrun.”

Littlefinger nodded, smiling. 

“Council dismissed. Thank you for your time.” Sansa said, making all raise themselves. 

Littlefinger’s behaviour continued to unsettle Meera, despite they hadn’t even had a proper conversation. The smooth way he talked or twirled his beard, just seemed unnerving. It was clear how manipulative he could be, which he granted, was great at. It remained a wonder to her how Bran could simply accept seeing his sister manipulated right in front of him, in their own home. 

“I don’t understand why she keeps listening to him.” she rhetorically said while pushing Bran’s wheelchair.  
“He clearly isn’t here to help Sansa. Neither does he care for anyone but himself, he’s always sneaking around…”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about him.” Bran answered. 

“Both your brother and sister think differently. They both despise him, and so do all the other lords.”

“I know. And Jon is not my brother”

“So why is it you don’t do anything?”

“I told you, he’s nothing to worry about.“

“That man is dangerous. He shouldn’t even be at Winterfell. He should be long away, along with all his knights.”

“He’s here for the same reason as you.”

Meera’s fists clenched around the grips of the wheelchair. “Do not compare me to him. You know he isn’t. Stop saying those stupid things.” Why did he keep making such statements? He was perfectly aware it wasn’t the truth, and yet he remained unaltered.  
Bran didn’t answer back. He only turned his head slightly to the left, obviously not really staring at anything specific. 

This was a recurring response he made, each time as frustrating as the previous. However, Meera had managed to convince herself it his medium: there existed both a better and worse alternative; the latter of which she was thankful hadn’t become reality. 

“Where are we going?” she asked him, finally arriving outdoors. 

“To the courtyard.”

“And why are we heading there?”

“Jon’ll soon be leaving. We should say goodbye to him.”

She froze. “Goodbye”. Bran may have known Jon for a longer time than her, many years more, but they nowhere near had been through as much her and Bran. He was going no further north than they had been, neither risking his life more than they, and yet this time it would be Bran who himself took initiative to say goodbye. Littlefinger had gotten that right: loyalty is an odd thing. 

“What are you going to say to him?” she asked, not being able to hold back her spite.

“He needs to know I will be helping him through my ravens.”

“You don’t think he’ll figure that out himself?”

Of course Bran didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Why exactly did he get away with just shrugged off the difficult questions? He knew everything after all, supposedly. Most of the time Meera had to find her own answers.

“Will there be others?”

“He’s already said his goodbyes to them.”

“So no?”

“Yes.”

A few minutes passed as they headed towards to the courtyard. “Littlefinger will be glad if he dies.”

“Sansa is already queen. He doesn’t need Jon to be dead.”

'No, but he needs you to be' she thought. They were both aware of this, but Bran continued to be unbothered. There was little convincing him to be on his guard however – even if she were to directly tell Bran Littlefinger was going to kill him, her prince most likely wouldn’t do much but shrug with his shoulders. No, she needed someone else on her side. 

“Do you keep your ravens around him?”

“Yes. I do with most.”

“Most? Who is it you don’t watch?”

“Those who do not matter.”

She smiled to herself, hoping he did the same. She knew he didn’t. Despite his impassive attitude, he still knew.

The distinct chillness from beyond the wall had reached the winds that engulfed the two patiently waiting for the recently abdicated King in the North. The snowflakes were larger and more numerous than just before, wetting both her and Bran’s hair.  
It wasn’t a wind she had missed. There were simply no positives associated with it, and she wouldn’t mind not being reminded. Alas, very few, in fact none, hold the power to reign over such things – not even Bran. 

Jon was looking handsomely stern as always, approaching them with his firm way of walk. Meera caught his eyes, although none spoke to the other – rarely had they been in the same room together, much less exchanged even the most superficial of polite conversation. She didn’t have any need to do so anyway, as he seemed rather unapproachable, much like Bran in all honesty. Only, Bran and she had history. 

“I was searching for you, brother.” he said, loosening his sternness. “But of course you were already aware I’d be leaving.”

“You didn’t try to make Gendry stay with your party. Why?”

Meera recognised the feeling expressed in Jon’s face, the feeling of being confronted with such abrupt questions that made you fumble with the words of your answer, flustered by the demanding inquiry. 

“He preferred staying with our sister. They apparently have history together.”

“After my father was executed, they met on the Kingsroad.”

“I know.” Jon stated, his usual seriousness having returned to his face. He was clearly irritated, placing a grabbing hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Ned was my father too. He may not have been my real parent, but he treated me as his son. That makes him a father to me.”

“Bran is not the same as the one you knew.” Meera stated, trying both to defend Bran and hinder a heated situation before it arose. 

“I’ve noticed” he said. “Not much of the happy child I knew is left. A shame it has to be this way”

“It doesn’t.” she hastily answered. Jon appeared confused, which was understandable. “At least I don’t think so…”

“I believe that too.” he said, now smiling down at Bran. “Why is it you refused the throne?”

“I had no need of it. Sansa will make a much better ruler than I.” 

“Maybe. You shouldn’t have refused anyway, not until we have that snake under control.”

“You shouldn’t worry about him.”

“He keeps telling me the same” Meera added.

“Because it’s true.”

“I know we’re not able to see everything at all times, but consider our advice. I’ve seen him sneak around the castle and he’s always around Sansa. Don’t trust him.”

“I don’t.”

“Good. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“The same to you” Meera said.

“I don’t. Not as much as my siblings, anyway. But I don’t see the alternative.”

“You’ll have my help as well. Through my ravens.”

“How will they help me?”

“I’m a warg, Jon. If they squeak, I want your attention. They will be flying above your party.”

“… I see. And will we know what’s danger and what’s not?”

“You’ll figure it out.”  
Go to Eastwatch. There will be some who’ll join you there.”

“Who are they?”

“They are in the cells, but they’re not bad. Make sure to have them with you.”

Jon nodded understandingly before hugging him goodbye. He only nodded at Meera.

“Meera.” Bran said, halting Jon who was already walking off. “Your sword.”

She grabbed the hilt of it. “What of it?”

“It’s Valyrian steel.”

“Where do you have it from?” Jon asked.

“It was in the cave. She took it while we fled.”

“Yes, I did. Brienne told me it was made of Valyrian steel, which is very valuable.”

Jon stepped closer. “The value is not important. Do you know what it can do?” 

“It’s stronger and sharper than all other steel.”

“Yes, but it can also slay white walkers.” he said. “Which is an incredibly rare feature.”

Nobody had told her that. She had never really been in a situation where she could test the sword, much less against a white walker. 

“Jon needs it.”

This only made her strengthen her grip on the sword. Her mind was in disbelief over what she expected were to be asked of her. “And…?”

“Him and his companions will be facing white walkers soon. Give it to him.”

Meera studied the face of Jon; it was one of conflict, with one part wanting the sword, the other disliking the way it was requested. She then turned to look at Bran, hoping for a similar expression. It was not, of course. His eyes, although meeting her own, were unchangeable in their unreadability. He meant what he had ordered her to – it wasn’t a test, not a way of seeing whom she would side with. No, this was simply an order.  
The sword itself was of no matter. She wouldn’t be facing white walkers anytime soon, and if Jon possessing it would extend the time before having to meet one, there would be no problem handing it to him. Had Jon or Bran explained the request, she would have given it with a smile. But Bran had decided it should be otherwise, not even giving her an illusion of choice. He really was great at goodbyes.

She pulled out the sword from its sheath, studied it and held it by the blade. “Here, then.”  
Jon awkwardly took it, not having the audacity to stare back at her. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, had he looked back. “I hope you put it to good use.”

He rested his eyes on Meera’s. “I will.” he continued, now hinting at Bran. “It’s good you’re here for him. He’ll need you.”

'I hope so' she thought, watching the former king walking off, now with her sword in his hand. 

“Jon!” a voice accompanied with running footsteps shouted. It was Arya who came running with a saddened look on her face. She rammed head on into Jon’s chests, embracing him. The two whispered into each other’s ears.  
Bran looked on with little affinity, incapable of showing affection. Was there nothing that could bring forth emotion in him? 

After they had parted, Arya approached the two companions. Her spiteful look had been replaced with a more wholesome expression.

“Hello.” she said to Meera. 

“You’re very close with him.” Meera answered, attempting to start conversation.

“Yes, I am.”

The wind filled their ears as none said a thing. 

“I’m sorry if you feel I’ve forced myself into your family.”

“You’re not my family.”

“No, I’m aware.”

“Then why would you say you are?”

“That’s not what she meant.” Bran said, supporting Meera. “You know that.”

Arya became oddly quietened for a few seconds by those words. “When Jon announced his resignation as king, why didn’t you take his place?”

“Sansa will make a far better ruler than I.”

“No she won’t. Don’t you see? It was all Littlefinger’s plan, removing Jon to make place for Sansa.”

“I will take care of Littlefinger at some point.”

“You haven’t done anything yet.” Meera said, joining Arya for once. “You’ve just accepted what he wants.”

“I have not.” Bran said, not open to more discussion. He began shifting in his chair, clearly uncomfortable about something. “Take me inside.”

 

On the way to bringing back to his chambers, Meera and Arya had fought a subtle battle on who were supposed to push the chair, a role both felt designated to be. Meera didn’t let her grip go however, pushing him most of the way.  
Arya brought him maester Luwin’s old tomes concerning ancient magic and the children of the forest, most of which he probably knew. The two ladies were quick to leave the room, and on their way away from each other, Meera managed to catch the attention of Arya.

“I was hoping to talk speak a little with you.”

“Of what?”

“Sansa and Littlefinger.”

“… What about them?”

“You seem to despise both.”

“I do not.” 

“One of them, at least.” she said. “I just want Bran to safe from him. I’m sure you’d agree.”

“I do. Littlefinger needs to be controlled.” 

“And what do you propose?”

“I’ll watch him.”

“We should ask Brienne, too.”

Once separated, Meera realised how little fruit their deal held. Neither of them had truly wanted to be in conversation with the other. Bran had previously acted as the bridge between them, and with him gone, they had none.  
Wandering aimlessly through the godswood, she began to think of her home down south. Throughout all the time he had known him, Father kept reminding her of the Reeds’ loyalty to the Starks. It was difficult to understand, especially considering how distinctive they were, and still are, to the Crannogmen. After a few years, she understood it was actually the Reeds who were the odd ones out, but that didn’t change what her father had taught her. She had come to admire her liege house, especially Lord Stark. Perhaps this was what kept her at Winterfell.  
She knew it wasn’t. Whatever Bran had meant when he compared her to Littlefinger, she already knew the reason. It felt wrong of course, feeling this way. Caring and feeding a person for years shouldn’t provide for the type of emotional status she was currently experiencing. Worst of all, she had none to consult.

The continuously shortening days forced her inside. Darkness was hovering over Winterfell, consequently creating sources of light all around the castle. Her chamber was amongst the tall ones, giving her a perfect, tranquil view. With very few exceptions, Winterfell could almost be as quiet as the Greywater. This was most likely due to aforementioned placement of her chamber, but nevertheless, it was perfect, like home.  
Winterfell did also feel safer than Greywater, in all honesty. The countless patrolling guards, the strong and intimidating walls made sure one could sleep easily at night. While Littlefinger remained a threat, he didn’t bother her at the moment. He was too distant for that. The only thing that disturbed her rest was the guards shouting the arrival of some traveller and the gates being opened and closed.

The usual raven seemed to have made itself a nest in a basket, which had originally been filled with various fruits, all of which had now been eaten to make way for the raven itself. Typically it would sit on the table, watching her and flopping a bit around at times. Tonight however, it wasn’t being warged, only resting in the nest, sleeping for once.  
If she didn’t know him better, this could be perceived as a good sign. It wasn’t. Instead, in contrast, it meant something was wrong. He would’ve told her, or at the very least have given her a clue. Half asleep, she rose from her bed, clad only in a nightgown, lighted a candlelight and placed it inside a lantern. Stepping out of the door, she couldn’t care less if someone saw her in this less than proper state. 

“Come in.”

The statement came before she had knocked on his door. In the bed lied a melancholic looking prince, with his right fist clenched around the fur keeping him warm. Meera composed her tired mind, placing the lantern of the cupboard next to his large bed, herself now sitting on the latter. 

“Your raven fell asleep.”

“I know. I let her.” 

His voice sounded all wrong, almost distorted, when compared to the indifferent tone that had become the usual since they escaped the cave. 

“Why?”

“There are other things on my mind.”

'Finally' she thought.

“What bothers you?” she mitigatedly asked. 

Bran looked her dead in her eyes. He didn’t exactly seem scared, but rather just a tad nervous. “The man you heard arrive.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Jaime.”

She took the opportunity, masking it as a way of comforting. It may have looked incredibly awkward and misplaced, but it felt neither. Bran remained unresponsive to it, but not repellent either. She made sure to make it relatively short, but as she was doing it, it lasted longer than necessary, but not longer than what felt right. After her lips had left his head, a placid silence filled the room.


	5. Jaime Interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Jaime won't become a main POV-character in this story. In fact, he'll be the only one, besides our main heroine. I hope you're not too disappointed.

No matter how much he wanted to reject himself thinking of it, the image of a raging Cersei continued to play vividly in his mind. At the moment, she was most likely simply attempting to brush off his betrayal by being cold and cruel, as ever. But the rage would be unavoidable the second the news of his upcoming proclamation reached her. Jaime dared not think of how much it would strengthen her relentlessness. 

There was no point in resuming having his thoughts revolve around her – there were many other concerns at the moment, all of which required his attention. The hostile expressions he knew he would receive from the guards, for one. They weren’t to blame, though – little could be done to heal all the bad blood shared between Lannisters and Starks. Hell, none of his supposed “secrets” were secrets any longer, and in Winterfell, no one would make an effort to look past them. In fact, the people of the North would only encourage each other in accusing his past. Not that they would be wrong, neither in the accusations nor in their right to do so.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the taller of two guards spat, as Jaime’s face was revealed after riding through the gate. “Have you grown thick coming up here, Kingslayer?”

“I am here to serve the North.” Jaime said, both unhesitantly and truthfully. ‘Gods’ he thought in continuation of his statement. ‘The last words I’d have imagined me ever saying’. 

The two began to laugh hysterically, obviously ironically. “The Kingslayer, serving the North? Fuck off.” The tall soldier stated, having instantly halted his laughing. “I say we kill you right here and now, bring your head to Lord Brandon as a gift.”

“What you gonna do ‘bout it? You only got one hand, yeah? Toss gold coins at us perhaps?” the short soldier joked, causing both to laugh.

What a petty death it would be to fall at the hands of these two. Truth was, they were probably stupid enough to actually do it, the morons. “I say you bring me to your Queen.”

“And why should we do that?” the short soldier asked in disbelief at the request. “I’m sure we’d get a hefty prize, bringing in your head.”

“I’m sure that your Queen would get just as pissed, were you to kill me on the spot when I came here of myself. You don’t think she would actually reward you, do you? With what, a sack of gold? A mansion for you both? Queen Sansa does not ransom people.” ‘At least I hope not.’ “You have nothing to win and everything to lose. Now, take me to her.”

The guards mumbled something inaudible while looking at their feet, clearly convinced. “We’ll have to take your weapons, Kingslayer.”

“Of course” he agreed. 

Winterfell was still as unwelcoming as he had felt it all those years back. Still as cold, still built hundreds of miles from anything else of importance, still so unornamented the tall grey walls kept their imitating presence. For the latter, Jaime could commend the castle, considering how few had succeeded in conquering the castle. Properly besieging it would take years, and you’d have to be an exceptional logistician to keep provisions for your army in such an inhospitable land so distant from all else.  
“Barbarians” Cersei had called them on their visit here. “Primitive, dumb people, all of them. I’d love to one day see it in flames”. At the time when she had said those words, he was far too aroused to think of the pure disdain his sister felt for this place. He had simply gone on to agree with her statement, just before fucking her again. But the now was an entirely different time and place – and while he could forgive himself for proceeding to have another go at her body and agreeing to the first statements, considering Cersei’s recent actions he regretted brushing off the last sentence, despite the fact he was very much in his more animalistic self at the time. If avoidable, he preferred to keep far away from any flames from now on.

He was brought to the Queen’s solar and ordered to wait while they would fetch her. Last time he was here, Sansa impossibly could have been past 13, desperately wanting to escape this grey and dull place in favour of all the romance south of the Neck. Cersei spoke kindly of her, but it was clearly an attempt for herself to accept Joffrey’s marriage to a Northerner, the child of Ned Stark no less. Cersei hated, utterly loathed the poor child. Jaime knew why. The same reason she hated Margaery, the same reason she had despised the deceased Lyanna Stark, as well as why she detested Brienne. Even the same reason she disliked him at times. Jaime was aware of the jealousy-based spite females were able to possess, but Cersei remained unmatched in this field. He could recall several occasions at which his sister would play evil shenanigans on other ladies of the court when they were younger. Again, at the time, Jaime was blinded by his infatuation of her, so much so that it was not before his later years he’d realise the reason behind it all: attention, power and beauty - though mainly power and attention. Thinking of himself, he hadn’t been that much different, if beauty and power were changed to swordsmanship and glory. They were twins, after all.  
Now the once 13-year old little soon-to-be Queen had become Queen – only not the one she, or anyone, had expected. A self-governing, unmarried Queen of the North. It was hard to judge whether or not old Ned would’ve been content with the decisions by his bannermen. Most likely not – northerners were men of tradition. But desperate times create desperate measures, even from stern old men. 

Footsteps could be heard from outside the door. His heart was pumping at an alarming rate, much faster than the footsteps – it hadn’t gone so wild since the battle at the loot train. But why? At that occasion, he faced dragons supported by at least two thousand roaring Dothrakies. He was currently only about to face a few children, all of which were much younger than him.  
The door was opened by a guard, and through it came Sansa, now to be addressed Queen Sansa. It was true what people were saying of her: a complete replica of her mother. And while just as beautiful as Catelyn once had been, just as cynical and emotionless could Sansa appear, evidenced in her current expression and posture. 

“I expect you to have a very good reason to be here, Ser Jaime.” the Queen stated with disgust ridden in her voice. 

“I do. I-“ he began, not really knowing how to articulate himself. Why hadn’t he prepared a speech of some sort? That would have been the least he could have done in advance. Sansa raised her eyebrows in supercilious expectancy. “I’m here to declare myself as your subject, my Queen.”

He went down to his knees as he spoke, his forearm planted on his knee, looking down at the floor. The atmosphere of the room continued to be the same. Jaime remained on his knee, expecting to be ordered decapitated this very instant. 

“That’s not a reason. Take a seat.”

Sansa went to the other side of the table, still glaring icy cold at him. He did as he was told. 

“Why should I believe what you’re saying? I can’t think of one, not one reason as to why I should keep you alive. Your words hold no weight, and never will. You are a Lannister and we’ve had enough of Lannisters in the North.”

She was clearly getting riled up by his presence. “I’ve left her behind, Sansa. She is not a part of me any longer.”

“You only strengthen my statement, ser. I ask you for the reason you’re here, yet you don’t give me one.”

“All of my children are dead because of her. She cares nothing for neither me nor anyone else but herself any longer. Why would I be here anyway, if that wasn’t true? Hmm? To, spy on you? Is that what you believe? You and I both know that’s not the case.”

“I know that that’s not the case. Which is I ask you: why are you here?”

What didn’t she understand? He was speaking perfectly clear. Maybe she just didn’t want to know. 

“I have already told you – to serve you, the north, Winterfell.”

“The same way you served your other kings? And how did that go? No, not very well. The North has no need of you, Kingslayer. I advise you leave immediately and never return.”

Jaime raised himself from the chair, but not to walk off. He instead took a step closer to Sansa’s table, hoping to become more convincing in his arguing. Queen Sansa did not respond. 

“I understand you have no reason to trust me, but I beg of you, do. This is my last resort to do something with my life.” He said, emphasising the last sentence. This had to work.

“You could’ve gone to Casterly Rock, Essos, anywhere but here. Cersei was right about your stupidity.”

“Yes, she was, still is. I’d be a fool to deny such a claim. I rode head-on towards a huge dragon, a spear in my left hand, hoping to end the war for my sister. I’ve tossed myself into a pit with a live bear, just so that I could save another person. Both deeds done with only a left hand. And so what that’s stupid? I acted. And I would do the same for you.  
“Most of my life’s been spent trying to achieve some vain glory, only leading to failure upon failure. My attempt at killing Daenerys is one. The only honourable thing I’ve done is virtually unknown. And now I’m here, as this is the only place for me to be, to regain whatever honour I’ve had or wished to have. Yes, I could’ve gone to Casterly Rock or another pile of rocks to live out my days – but here, I can achieve something. In your name.” 

Jaime found himself breathing heavily after having spoken. Whether it was from getting upset or from a lack of breath, or a mixture of the two, he wasn’t sure. But that did not matter. All he had to do was convincing her.

“And what do you think my brother will say to you? Do you think he’d gladly accept you into our home?”

“Your brother was the one who kept me alive. Had it been to the his bannermen I’d be long dead by now.”

“I’m not talking of Robb.”

Jaime furrowed his brow in confusion. 

“Haven’t you heard, Ser?” she asked, with a cruel smile on her lips as if telling an insulting jest. ”My brother Brandon holds the title of Lord of Winterfell as of now. You do remember him, don’t you?”

“How old are you, boy?”

“Ten”

“Ten…”

Yes, Jaime did remember him. However, he had successfully both repressed the memory and forgiven himself. First the boy survived the fall, then the Boltons’ occupation of Winterfell. How? It was of no matter anyway. He had hoped to never meet Bran again, but alas, one does not have control over such things.  
His heart began to race once again, even more intensely than before. What if he had let the boy go? Or simply threatened him into submission? Tyrion never would’ve been captured. He wouldn’t have assaulted Ned in the streets of King’s Landing. But nor would he be where he was now.  
Odd, how arriving at Winterfell could be so emotionally reminiscent of battling dragons and thousands of Dothraki. At first, the feared cavalry from Essos had created a frightening feel of urgency and guard within him. But the hole he felt in his stomach at this very moment, had first appeared when the dragon swept down from the sky, that white-haired girl on its back. As scared as he was of that dragon, just as scared was he from meeting Bran. 

The door opened. Though it wasn’t Brandon, it was one he greeted the same amount of welcome. Somehow, Jaime wasn’t surprised to find him here. 

“It has been quite some time since last, hasn’t it?” the little man rhetorically asked. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. Cersei is a predicament for all surrounding her.”

“Yes. She is.”

“Jaime claims he’s here to declare himself loyal to me.”

Littlefinger narrowed his eyes, studying Jaime closely. “You do realise very few, if any, want you here? You’re handing yourself a plight by being here.”

“I’m aware, Lord Baelish. I have no desire to be anywhere else, despite that.”

“What made you leave her, I wonder? I do seem to recall your bond being… Of particular strength.”

Jaime swore he could feel his golden hand itching to punch him. He sighed, gathering composure. “Yes, it was. Was. It’s not anymore… Had it still been, I wouldn’t be here.”

“All the lords of the North would like you dead the very instant they spot you. I don’t think there’s one you can convince to your side.”

“I do not need the permission of the lords of the north. I need the permission of the queen.” Jaime answered, searchingly looking at Sansa, but her eyes were avoiding his.

“If I may advise you, your Grace… I don’t see the reason in keeping him. What can he do for you? A one-handed knight, whom all of your current subjects want dead.” Littlefinger said as if he wondered, then turned to Jaime. “What it is you think you can contribute with? What were your intentions?”

“I didn’t have any – none other than to serve.” Jaime said, still being truthful. “All I have left is my cause here. Do not mistake it for some foolish fixation… It’s not. I’m ready to do whatever you wish, your Grace.”

Littlefinger scoffed at the statement, probably finding it silly and unbelievable. The decision rested on Sansa’s shoulders, silencing the two considerably older men. 

“The decision is not mine to take. It’s not my right to do so.”

“Then whose is it, if not the queen’s?”

“I’ll leave it to my brother to decide.” She said. “Guards, I wish my brother’s presence.”

 

It appeared that the young, crippled lord was already on his way, as the guard announced, only a minute or two past given the order. 

Jaime dared not look back at the other two sitting in the room – he could tell they were sending judging eyes at his neck, both wishing him death. Brandon wouldn’t be any different, of course. Why would he? The boy had been tossed from a window, his life ruined, by one impulsive action on Jaime’s side.  
Wheels, which Jaime presumed came from Brandon’s chair, could be heard approaching, screeching softly. At least one person was with him, evident from the accompanied footsteps. Jaime shifted in his seat, breathing heavily, almost dizzy. 

The first to enter was Brienne. “Lord Stark and Lady Reed.” He had missed her more than he could realise before seeing her once again, but that wasn’t enough to steal the centre of Jamie’s attention.

He had grown considerably. He had longer, more unruly hair than before and obviously taller, despite being seated in his wheeled chair – perhaps even taller than Jaime, could he stand. He was dressed in the finest of northern fur, even at these nightly hours. Pushing the chair was a short girl, slightly boyish of looks. Both of them gave off a grave expression; Brandon’s with a hint of fright, the girl’s with anger. 

Jaime’s mind went numb.

“I’m sorry we have to disturb the two of you at these untimely hours, but we figured the situation required unique judgement.” Littlefinger stated, but was cut off by the immense tension which had emerged. 

Bran was looking Jaime. He didn’t initially respond to the prince’s eyes. They were glaring with unyielding judgement, as were all other eyes but his own. With a single order, the new Lord Stark could bring down his whole life; not just by giving him death, but by staining his name for all history to come. This had been his strongest fear of all.  
Ever since Ned arrived in the Throne Room on that fateful day which earned Jaime his nickname, this fear had been a hanging cloud inside his mind. As a response to this, he had changed his mind-set: if it had to rain, why attempt to seek shelter? This had of course not given him much happiness in life, either.  
It had been the decisive decision to push Brandon out of that tower window. In the brief time old Ned had lived afterwards, Jaime kept imagining the scenario in which Lord Stark would be told the truth. In such a case, even both of his hands couldn’t be able to defeat the experienced warrior who had defeated Ser Dayne – his anger would be too great. After pushing Bran out of that window, Jaime had secured himself an irredeemable position. Never would Eddard have given him any forgiveness, no matter how much the inner parts of Jaime desired it. 

“Bran” Sansa began. “Jaime claims to be willing to subject himself to our cause. But I wouldn’t decide anything before you’ve had your say.”

The boy continued to be silent, staring eerily at him. Looking back at Sansa, Jaime wasn’t able to answer Bran’s eyes. “I do. I’m at your will.”

“It’s easy for him to claim such a thing, never having to show it. We have no reason, much less any evidence telling us to believe you.” Littlefinger said.

The young woman beside Bran, this Lady Reed, had her fist clenched around a corner of the wheeled chair, showing a silent protest to his presence. She had to be the child of Lord Reed, Lord Stark’s faithful companion. That fact alone provided enough logic for her obvious dislike of him. But as often as she gave off disregarding glares to Jaime, as often did she give Brandon worried faces, none of which were not given any response by the crippled lord. ‘Poor girl’ Jaime thought. 

“There is nothing we could use you for. You’re practically incapable in combat, the only thing you’ve ever been good at.” Sansa continued. 

Jaime had no real answer. “I… I”

“Excuse me, your Grace.” Brienne’s soft voice went, a sword being pulled at the same time. “I travelled with this man for months, with every day being a pain, simply due to him. But for every day we got closer to King’s Landing, the pain became smaller. One day it had grown so small he was willing to jump into a bear-pit, one-handed, just to save me. He went on to give me this sword – a sword of Valyrian steel. I’m not defending his crimes, your Grace… I’m just saying his claim is not entirely unfounded.”

“Ah, love. It makes you do the most uncalculated of things. I wasn’t any different, when I challenged your namesake, my Lord, to a duel over your mother’s heart.” Littlefinger said, now facing Sansa: “Think of yourself, your Grace; you defended Joffrey’s actions, blinded by your love for him. It does cloud one’s decisions.”

“Brienne is hardly a little girl of 13, Lord Baelish. I’m sure she’s aware of both her words and the reason behind them.” Sansa protested. Hadn’t it been for the eyes of Brandon, Littlefinger being silenced by a Stark would’ve brought a smile upon Jaime’s face. “The question is if Jaime is aware as well.”

“I’ve told you. Anything.” Jaime proclaimed once again. Sansa’s eyes went to meet Littlefinger’s for a brief moment. 

“Loyalty is known not to lay deep within this man, your Grace. At least not to the kings he’s served. Considering his past, it would be against the odds to have him serve you.” Littlefinger said, his smug smile again upon his face. 

“We could imprison him.” Sansa said, looking at Bran. Jaime somehow assumed the cells of Winterfell weren’t as bad as the Black Cells beneath the Red Keep. “Or give him to the Wall, to Jon. Or we could put his knowledge of warfare to use. Bran?”

“No.”

Bran’s voice had not been loud, but firm. It almost gave Jaime a shock, seeing as he had not uttered a single word this entire time. Although staring at him, Jaime had to gather strength to directly answer the boy whose legs and life he had ruined. 

“Why? No what?” 

“Your deeds are irredeemable. Neither the North nor this family will forgive you.” Brandon said, with a surprising amount of emotion backing his statements. 

“Allow me a chance to try.”

“My father wouldn’t have given you one, and neither will I.”

Of course Ned would’ve given him a chance to prove himself – the boy couldn’t know what Lord Stark would have decided. Or, that was at least what the remains of Jaime’s hopeful and yet pretentious self told him. Jaime wanted this to be the dominant thought, but it was nothing when compared to another voice, regretfully agreeing with Brandon’s words. He had cut deep, much deeper than he could remember anyone had done for a long time. 

“Bran…” the Reed girl cautiously began. “Let’s go back now. We’re both tired.”

Brandon agreed silently, casting his eyes on the girl, avoiding anyone else’s. Brienne held the door for them, leaving silence in the room till the two were clearly some distance from the solar. 

“Brienne, find him a room.” Sansa decided. “Preferably one far from ours.”

 

Jaime had not left his room since he had been placed in it, the night before yesterday. Servants came now and then with food and drink to keep him alive. His room wasn’t exactly a cell, but he had made it into one on his own. Neither had he spoken to anyone in this time, besides Brienne from time to time. Yet these had been of both limited length and substance, so most of the time he remained forced to either study the peculiar patterns of his Valyrian sword, or to read whatever dull books which happened to be stored in his room.  
On the first night he wondered if he’d wake up from his sleep. He did, surprisingly, and even more so today. Being killed by some guard or lord’s son wouldn’t be a fate he could bear – if death was the only way bringing him closer to redemption, so be it. But not by the hands of one acting out of hatred, committing an unauthorised execution on their own impulses; no, Jaime would have to hear the order come from Brandon’s mouth before it could be a satisfactory closing to his failure of a life. 

“You should show yourself. That you’re not scared of them.” Brienne said. She had come to his room as the day was closing.

“I don’t fear them, you know that. But neither them nor me want much to do with each other.” he answered.

“It’s not ‘much’ to step out of your chamber this one evening.”

Jaime shrugged, knowing she was right. It wasn’t the lords he was afraid of, though. That privilege belonged to Bran, with his deadly stare glowing from his cold, blue eyes. In both of his two nights of sleep at Winterfell, feverish visions of his glare had transpired; and had Jaime not known better, he could have sworn he had seen the eerie presence of Brandon’s figure as well. Luckily for his self-perception, Cersei had not been present in either of them.

He followed Brienne closely, keeping away from other guards and servants, who no doubt would love nothing more than to plunge a knife through his neck. 

“Why did it have to be tonight?” he asked her with concern. Something was up. 

“You’ll see when we get there” she answered in a hurry. They were on their way to the Great Hall, that much he could tell. As to why though, was another question he couldn’t quite answer. If lucky, it would be the announcement of his execution.  
He was right in his guess of the Great Hall as the destination. Once in front of the entrance door, he held her by the wrist, stopping her. Littlefinger was right; love does cloud the mind. It was as if her eyes overshadowed all the bodily beauty she lacked, as if they were a portal into her true loveliness. He hoped she was aware of this trait of hers, but after a few moments of sharing gazes, Brienne nodded slowly and understandingly before opening the door. 

The room silenced after a few minutes, as Sansa raised herself from her chair. Jaime stood leaning against a side wall, away from the attention of the many Northerners in the room. He hoped to keep it that way. 

“My lords, ladies.” she began, all proper. “Firstly, we are all aware of the Kingslayer’s presence. It would seem he has decided to show us his face tonight.”

All eyes immediately turned on him, but he didn’t look back. They didn’t matter, he learned – they were so many, and all of the same nature and intent; in their numbers, they lost their intimidation. He instead kept looking at Brandon, sitting in his chair at the dais with the Reed girl closely by his side, whispering something into his ear. As long as Brandon’s eyes weren’t on him, the northerners could stare all they wanted. 

“It is not yours, nor my call that will decide what to do with him. That belongs entirely to my brother, Lord of Winterfell.” she continued, gaining grumbled noises from practically everyone in the room. “Until then, he’ll stay at Winterfell.”

“Put him in a cell, your Grace!” Lord Glover growled in protest. This was obviously a popular opinion, making the room grow louder and more upset. “He has no place at Winterfell!”

“Quiet, my Lords, quiet.” Queen Sansa stated firmly. “I do find it just to let the victim of the Kingslayer’s crimes decide his fate. Do you disagree?”

They turned their eyes from him and sat down once more, not as upset as before. 

“Secondly, reports of my uncle Edmure being held captive have emerged. He is my family, and I believe in the Tully words just as much as my mother did. With the Riverlands in complete turmoil after the death of the Freys, his situation is most dire. I therefore declare it our objective to put back Edmure on his rightful position as Lord of Riverrun. We shall engage in armed combat to achieve this goal. Preparations begin on the morrow.”

 

Brienne was angry, concerned and afraid all at the same time. She could not stand still, even though Jaime offered her to sit on his bed. 

“Don’t you see it? I’ve warned her numerous times now, but she just won’t listen to me.” she said and stopped to look at him. “Don’t you see it either? He’s controlling her decisions!”

“If you’re so afraid with him, don’t shout.” Jaime said, slightly annoyed. “And yes, I do see what he’s doing, but then I can’t see why you don’t just kill him and be done with it.”

“He’s got Sansa too close to him. Trust me, weren’t that the case, he would’ve been long dead.”

“However, that is the case.” he began while rising from the bed. “And what would happen, if you killed him now? Yes, Queen Sansa would get angry, and so what? That would not last long anyway.”

“You…” she argued, but trailed off instantly afterwards. “It doesn’t matter. But we have to keep an eye on him.”

“I’ve spent years with this man; trust me, I know.”

It required strength to refrain from doing it, but he didn’t dare quite yet. He was sure Brienne would like to as well, just as much as he, but even then it was difficult. Jaime inched closer to her, freezing the tall lady warrior. 

“I never thought I’d see you again after Riverrun.” he said. 

“Me neither.”


	6. Chapter V

For once the Queen’s council had contained something of importance. The results of the meeting half a fortnight past were visible in the courtyard of Winterfell, as the numerous lords with their knights and squires mounted their horses and stacked the carriage wagons. Sansa’s request to send all Northern lords south, or to their homes and gather the remnants of their armies, had come in quick succession to the announcement which declared Edmure Tully’s safety of paramount priority.  
Littlefinger hadn’t been present at that particular meeting – perhaps he was off planning the next move on Sansa’s behalf, or maybe he figured the Northerners disliked him too much. But even if they did, Sansa’s orders were to be obeyed. Especially in the days following Jaime’s arrival, where much dissatisfied grumbling could be heard or at least sensed. The controversy the presence of a Crannog caused had become feeble in comparison to that of a Lannister.

Meera’s archery had improved from the practice she’d begun to spend her spare time on. After all, there was little at Winterfell to do. Sansa was more concerned with politics than ever, Arya simply nodded stiffly, if not ignored her when they passed and Brienne was busy now that Jaime sat in solitude inside his chamber. Her prince had grown even quieter ever since he had to share his home with the latter. As a consequence of this, her bow became her primary friend to kill time alongside.  
Jaime Lannister stood on the other side of the courtyard, away from the Northern lords, looking on with a melancholic expression. He uncannily resembled all she’d been told of Lannisters and their appearance – the golden hair, sharp green eyes and of fit build. Age hadn’t been harsh on him as it is to most, although his hair was slowly fading. But aside from appearance, not much conformity between what she’d heard and reality was to be found. Bran had profoundly disapproved of him, but the desperate face of the Kingslayer kept returning in her mind – and while not fond of him, she had little reason to dislike him, judging from what she’d seen with her own eyes. History, however, demanded her to join the Starks’ point of view. 

She had completely halted her current training to stare at the now leaving bannermen. A few of them would greet her with a quiet “Lady Reed” or “Lady Meera” accompanied by a respectful nod. The stern old men had fortunately accepted her place at Winterfell, probably projecting varying identities onto her; at least that’s what she’d heard servants and guards do, some positions more inappropriate and incorrect than others. Meera had wondered about her position as well.  
Once they had left through the gates of Winterfell, she half-heartedly picked up her short bow to continue shooting arrows at the targets. It was a practice which dulled her mind and she often ended up not even focusing any longer. This quickly occurred again. She spotted Jaime going back into his chamber, hiding from the North and all its people.

As the shooting went on, she was abruptly interrupted by a voice launching a shout from across the yard. 

“Lady Meera!” the deep, male voice spoke. 

She turned to see the man Arya had been spending her time with, the one who had accompanied Jon when he came to Winterfell from the South. Sansa had installed him as assistant smith in the forge, a craft he apparently had both experience in and talent for. She had forgotten his name. 

“Yup, that’s me. And you’re… The new smith, right?”

He had already read her. “Gendry, yes,” he said with a knowing smile. “Waters.”

“Meera Reed.” She replied. “Why did you call?”

“I have something to show you, m’lady.” he politely stated. “If you’ll follow me.”

The inside of the forge was hot, but not in the comfortable way the rest of the castle was. This had a dangerous feel to it, and Meera dared not stand too close to the furnace.

Gendry took a sharp short sword from the nearby rack and held vertically in front of her, on hand on the blade, one on the hilt. “I was ordered to make this for you, m’lady.”

Meera blinked in confusion and surprise. “To… me?”

“From Lord Bran.” He confirmed. “A guard brought the request to me a few days back.”

He handed her the sword, followed by a sheath. It was shiny and clearly just made, of intermediate length and light of weight, with no ornamentation whatsoever. Meera wasn’t really used to fight a sword, having been used to the Crannog way of fighting with tridents, spears, nets and bows. 

“Uhm…” she began, slightly perplexed. “Thank you, for making this.”

“It’s not me you ought to thank, m’lady. It’s Lord Bran”

“Don’t call me ‘m’lady’. I’d much rather you just say Meera.”

“Of course, m’- Meera,” he said. “Funny how Arya and you have that in common.”

Meera shrugged, thinking of the younger Stark daughter. “I don’t we have much else in common, though.”

“I disagree,” he answered promptly. “The two of you both seem to dislike expectations from highborn ladies. And neither of you care much for what others think of it.”

She disliked being compared too much to Arya, thus deciding to steer the subject in a slight other direction. “How did you meet Arya?”

Gendry clearly understood. “Shortly after Lord Stark was executed in King’s Landing. We were heading for the Wall, as new recruits, but… We were interrupted, split. And now I’m here.”

Meera couldn’t help but silently scoff at the vague answer but didn’t dwell on it. “She’s often here, with you, isn’t she?” she inquired.

“She is. It would seem I’m one of the few she actually talks to.”

“Then it’s good you’re here. I think she needs that.”

“Me too,” he agreed, putting a smile back on his face. “For myself as well – not sure who I’d talk to if she weren’t here.”

“I understand you… There are not many I speak to either.”

“You spend an awful lot of time beside Bran.”

“Have you met him?”

“Arya speaks of him at times, but no, not really.”

“Then you know enough,” she sighed and fixed the sheath her belt. “He’s not the easiest person to converse with.”

“So I’ve heard.” He dimly agreed, looking at his feet while doing so. “But you’ve been with him for years. Surely, if anyone, you can talk with him.”

He was already getting personal. Normally she wouldn’t be able to care less for what some stranger desired to know about her, but she couldn’t resist and walk off. Something about Gendry was surrounded with honesty. Either that or she just needed to talk. 

“It’s not that I can’t speak with him. It’s that our conversations are rarely fulfilling or substantial. He almost always acts cold and disinterested, but sometimes he gives off signs.”

“What signs?”

“The same I suspect Arya and you give. Simply not as numerous.”

“And you don’t think this sword is one of those signs?”  
Meera mumbled inaudibly, agreeing with his point. The realisation made her feel lighter.  
“How did you know that? The signs, Arya and I…?” he continued.  
She smiled at him. “I didn’t, it was simply a guess. But a safe one, everything considered.”  
“I suppose it must’ve been. Is it obvious?”  
“Perhaps, I don’t know. You shouldn’t care. Sansa, Winterfell, the entire North has much more worrisome concerns at the moment.” Despite this, she was still curious about one thing. “How is she around you?”

“What do you mean? Arya?”

“She dislikes me, that’s for sure. And she doesn’t do much to hide it.” 

“I can tell you she’s not as she used to be. Back on the Kingsroad, she was far happier - or at least livelier.”

“Bran told me something similar,” she said, suddenly realising Gendry and herself shared a tendency to stay be loyal to the Starks, even if they were different than from what they once had been. “Has she spoken of me?”

“Not much. Only that… She’s annoyed with the amount of time you spend with Bran.”

“She’s just protective of her brother. I was as well.”

“Was?”

Meera gulped, frozen still with the sword in her hand. ‘Why did you say that?’

“I’m sorry, Meera… I understand” he kindly said in sympathy. “I’ll mention it to her, next time we speak. That there’s no need for rudeness.”

“That next time is now.” Arya suddenly came through the door with haste, but without a sound. Staring primarily at Meera, she wore her unaffectionate expression. 

“Have you been listening?” Gendry asked, sounding severely annoyed.

“Since you spoke of signs, yes.”

“You could’ve just come in,” Meera said doing her best to compromise. It didn’t seem to help.

“That sword,” Arya began while looking at Gendry, pointing at the sharp weapon in Meera’s hand. “You’ve been working on that for some days now. Why does she have it?”

“It’s on Bran’s orders” he firmly answered.

“Why would Bran order you to make her a sword?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I made it because I was told to.”

Arya turned to Meera. “Did you ask for it?”

“No- no, Gendry’s just handed to me now.”

Arya had her mouth opened, ready to respond, but was cut short by the smith. “Arya, tone it down. She’s done neither you nor the Stark family any harm. If anything, she has only helped.”

The girl had no answer. Had it been Sansa who had told her this, Meera figured Arya most likely would’ve instantly snapped back. Obviously, it was different when they were Gendry’s words. ‘Signs come in many ways’, Meera smilingly thought.

“Did you ever seek out Brienne?” Meera asked, both trying to restart conversation and out of actual curiosity. 

“I did.” She answered, not looking her in the eyes. “She agrees with us.”

“Agrees on what?” Gendry asked.

“That Littlefinger is a danger to Winterfell,” Arya answered.

“He just sent off all the Northern lords to go to a war he started,” Meera added, confirming Arya’s statement.

“But what is there you can do? Nothing. He’s Sansa’s closest advisor.” Gendry sombrely stated. There was truth behind those words.

“Don’t be so negative. We’ll figure something out with Brienne – she’s the one closest to Sansa, besides Littlefinger.” Arya told both of them. 

“Again, what is it you’d do?” 

“Do you want us to just stand around while he controls what should happen to the North? Never” Arya firmly proclaimed. Meera couldn’t agree more. “Have you asked my brother?” she continued the question and her face directed at Meera.

“I have. He keeps saying we shouldn’t worry. Stupid, really.” She was getting slightly worked up, now thinking of Bran’s consistently impassive reaction to Littlefinger’s decisions. “I’ll do what I can to convince him.”

“Littlefinger needs to be dealt with as soon as we can,” Arya said, her voice muffled from thinking and planning. “I’ll consult Brienne.”

The girl deftly left the forge immediately after she had finished her sentence. And while Gendry was shaking his head, tossing concerns out of it, Meera sheathed her sword.

 

While not previously aware of Arya’s capabilities at moving silently and undiscovered, she had now become jealous of them. There had been several occasions at which they would’ve proven useful: one of them was now. She had headed directly for Bran’s chambers, but it was of no help. He caught her anyway.  
She could hardly have refused him. Well, she could have, but only at the expense of her own relationship with him. And he wasn’t one to be on bad terms with. That much she had learned from being at the heart of the intrigues of Winterfell. 

“Please, do sit down Lady Meera,” he said, gesturing at the chair in front of her. “I won’t take much of your time.”

“What can I help you with?” Meera said, having convinced herself to attempt to appear polite. 

Lord Baelish smiled before beginning to talk, as he so often does. “I remember your father; he was always alongside with Ned, always supporting him through the war. I recall seeing him at the Tourney at Harrenhal. Of course, I didn’t know it was him until he befriended the Starks. But I won’t forget that feeling of bitterness which we no doubt shared for all the other knights and lords – I had rarely seen a man older than me who shared my size, and I do believe I saw some scars and bruises on his face, which only reminded me of my own youth; young, and stupid, and never a thought to the consequences.”

She failed to fathom how he dared compare himself to her father. They were leagues from each other, and Meera knew quite surely whom she’d prefer to have as a father. Nevertheless, she let him continue. 

“Your father then joined the Starks, stood loyal to them all throughout Robert’s Rebellion. I can’t say the same for myself, but I grew just as much as he. “ Littlefinger leaned closer to the table, placing both forearms on it. “And despite his profound loyalty, he eventually had to split with his liege Lord.”

“What do you mean? Where’re you going?” she asked bluntly. 

“Forgive me if I’ve misread Lord Stark – you know him far better than I ever could - but it seems to me as if…” he paused, seemingly searching for words. “As if he has other things on his mind,” he added cautiously. 

The fact that his observation couldn’t be considered wrong was what annoyed her the most. Bran certainly wasn’t ready to take on the actual duties as Lord of Winterfell, being so impassionate about everything but his own ravens and visions. She nodded slowly in response, reluctantly agreeing with him. 

“Allow me to be blunt, my Lady. The guards don’t exactly admire a lord who sits in a wheeled chair –“

“But it’s their duty to do so, whatever condition their lord may be in.” she hopelessly interrupted him.

“I understand that your loyalty to him is beyond most others – but had he been only a cripple, there wouldn’t have been many issues. The problem arrives with his indifferent attitude, which I’m sure you know isn’t the most befitting for a lord.”

Meera rose from the chair and walked to the window, unable to look at Littlefinger while speaking of these matters. 

“I hope I have not offended you, my Lady – that is the last of my intentions. I do not know what exact matters it is Lord Brandon concerns himself with, but I’ve noticed they can hardly be of administrative nature.  
“Your father parted with the Starks because he wasn’t needed to be by his side after the war. He moved south, away from all the troubles of the Winterfell court.”

“And you suggest I do the same, I suppose?” Meera spat and continued before Littlefinger could go on. “My father had duties he needed to take care of at the Neck, that’s why he moved. My duties lay with Bran and I won’t abandon them, my Lord.”

“I’m not asking you to abandon your duties, my Lady. Quite the opposite, in fact,” he said calmly, looking her directly in the eyes. She could feel them pierce through whatever façade she walled herself with. “I’ve spoken with Queen Sansa of this – she’s told me of your relationship.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing revelatory, I promise. She simply agrees with me,” he said smiling knowingly. It unnerved her to no end. “But would it be incorrect to assume that Lord Stark may be in need of some space?”

“He’s perfectly fine here at Winterfell.”

“But would it hurt?” he rhetorically asked. “I’m not here to diminish Lord Brandon’s position or his right to it. I am a man of practicality, Lady Meera. I see an opportunity to improve a situation, I take it.”

“And sending Bran away from his own home is one such opportunity? How would that improve anything?”

“The people of the North are of tradition, of which I’m certain you’re aware. Men come first in the line of succession, and Lord Bran’s presence is a constant reminder of this, all while they prefer Sansa as their Queen. And considering his... current state, it is only a logical to offer him a place of solace for him to focus, far off from where he’s the concern of so many others. I won’t claim to know of these, but it seems to me he does need it.  
“And you, Lady Meera, do not have to ‘abandon your duties’. Sansa respects the loyalty you clearly feel, and she won’t rob you of that. If you were to accompany him, perhaps down to your father, he wouldn’t feel alone. In addition, it could also help lighten… certain arrangements. It is, of course, your own decision to make.”

Nothing could ever make her like this man. She knew he was manipulative, yet he kept making sound arguments. Clearly, he had read her. Meera wished it wasn’t so, but somehow he had figured out what she wanted, while not having done so herself. 

“What of the title itself, ‘Lord of Winterfell’?”

“She’ll become Lady of Winterfell in addition to being Queen. Redundant, I know.”

Meera wasn’t convinced he truly meant to send Bran and her off, away from Winterfell. There was no real way he could have convinced Sansa of this and definitely no scenario in which Bran would willingly leave his home. Doing so would only cause one thing. As much she wanted to the Greywater and parents again, Littlefinger couldn’t continue to have it his way. 

“Lord Baelish, have you noticed the amounts of ravens here at Winterfell?”

“Most castles have them by the numbers.”

“But these at Winterfell are different,” she said, turning to him. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“They do seem rather lively.”

“There is one on the opposing roof,” Meera said while pointing at it. The raven stared directly back at her, the black depths of its eyes clear even through the window. Littlefinger didn’t care to rise in order to have a look. 

“I pardon for not understanding what you’re implying, Lady Meera. But I hardly see their relevance to the matter at hand.”

Looking at it for extended periods, its little head started to resemble that of Bran’s. She was surely going mad. “They keep flying around. I rarely see them in their nests, neither tending to it nor resting in it.” 

When their faces were directed at each other once again, she could tell he was studying her. His eyes were narrowed and he had leaned a bit in over the table. “I’ll leave you to yourself, my Lady,” he said, breaking his study of her and rising from the chair, heading for the door.  
“I hope you’ll think of the proposal.” His voice was soft and almost kind as he opened the door. “Perhaps it’ll gain you raven for yourself.”

 

Heat was rising to her head as a result of her racing heart. Should honesty be spoken, there was no denying it; she was afraid. Despite having convinced herself otherwise, the dangling and devastating threat of Bran accepting this offer hung as a cloud over her thoughts in her mind. And even if he were to, she could persuade him into refusing – at the very least, this was what kept her hope up. 

She was aware Littlefinger had been clever. He had read her and she was forced to accept it. And while that annoyed her to no end, in light of his recent gift, the proposal held a tiny bit of cogency. It was as if a simple “yes” from the both of them could release one of those quixotic dreams which belonged only to songs and tales of adventure and romance. Always quickly shaking it out of her head, the scenarios had still sprung into her mind at times; floating in Greywater Castle guarded by the tranquillity of the swamps, marshes and wetlands of the Neck, Bran lying next to her in bed, her maiden name removed, as evidenced by the small bodies laughing and running happily around…

More noise than usual could be heard through Bran’s door. Dozens of tiny dots of sound accompanied with flapping and squeaking revealed the location of at least 7-8 ravens. Opening the door, Meera had long grown accustomed to simply entering at will – her Prince never bothered nor cared to protest when she did.  
He sat by the window, casting guarding glances across the yards, walls and towers of Winterfell. The ravens didn’t react to her presence, but instead focused on their warg, ‘their leader’, Meera supposed. Stepping a little closer still with her mouth closed and lips together, one of them was standing on the back of his hand, looking into his eyes, seemingly with curiosity. In the blink of an eye, it turned to look at Meera. 

In the time before Bran had turned his own at Meera, she was standing by him. 

“You came just in time,” he said. 

“In time for what?”

It knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” Bran ordered. In came a servant girl whom Meera had noticed a few times, but still unaware of her name. The girl was carrying a basket of bread, most of it looking stale and dry. 

“Oh,” she shyly said in a tone so low it might as well have been a whisper. “Excuse me, mi’Lady, mi’Lord. I didn’t you was here.”

Meera just smiled at the girl. “It’s alright,” she said awkwardly. At Greywater the servants were few, thus far less formal and shy. It therefore made little sense to Meera to the servants like this.  
Neither close nor perceptive of Bran’s personality, it would admittedly be scary being presented with a dozen ravens as black as coal eerily placed here and there around the room. To relieve some of her coyness, Meera stood up and stepped to her, gesturing the servant to hand her the basket. The girl understood the unsaid offer. 

In the very moment the basket was given to Meera, the ravens all began to squeak and a few to flap their wings, heading for the bread. Their sudden disarray was cut short though, scaring the servant girl even further. 

“mi’Lady, mi’Lord,” she said, curtseying and deftly left the room. 

“Was that you?” Meera asked, despite already knowing the answer.

“Yes.”

She dragged a nearby chair and placed it next to Bran’s, the basket on her lap. “I wasn’t aware you’d begun to feed your ravens yourself.”

“It’s quite new for me, too,” he plainly said, reaching for a loaf. He broke it into a few pieces, allowing a raven to nip. “It gives me something to do.”

“I thought you had plenty concerns.”

“I do,” he admitted, his gaze still focused on the raven he was feeding. “I just don’t want to be occupied by them all the time.”

She placed the basket on the floor just in front of her chair, inching closer to him, scraping the chair legs along the ground. In the silence currently filling the room, it sounded like thunder. “Littlefinger sought me out and spoke with me.”

“I know,” he said. “He’s speaking with Sansa right now.”

“Of what?”

“The same you spoke to him about.”

“So… He’s telling her he spoke to me?”

“Yes. He’s trying to convince her.”

Meera gulped in disbelief. “He said he already had.”

“He’s only introduced her to the offer just now.”

She sighed, composing herself and gathering strength – she was growing tired of getting upset. Rising, she began walking back and forth in an attempt to contain her frustration. In moments such as these, the dream of Bran beside her in Greywater Castle was ever distant and unreal. 

“So he hadn’t made the deal with Sansa before coming to me.”

“No.”

She halted her walk. “No what? You’re just sitting there, letting him take control of your own home!”

“I won’t let him. I’ll take care of him.”

“Clearly you won’t,” she said angrily. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have let him send all those lords away from Winterfell! You wouldn’t have let him go to war!”

“It’s because I let him. It’s on my sister’s behalf.”

“What do you mean?”

“It just seems to me that Sansa wants it.”

He was confusing her beyond belief. “What are you saying, Bran? That… That you let her wage war on the Riverlands to let her have them?”

Her prince was looking her dead in the eye, perplexed and unknowing. “Don’t you think so too?”

What was it he didn’t understand? Had he grown blind from seeing too much? Or was it just herself who was misunderstanding this entire conversation? Meera had begun to question her own logic when these disputes occurred.

“He, him, Littlefinger! He’s making her believe that this is what she wants. Can’t you see that?”

The raven stopped eating the bread. Bran tossed it out of the window and looked down at his feet, fumbling his fingers before looking up at her again. He shook his head slowly, almost cautiously. He spoke with the same amount of reluctance. “No”

A few minutes of silence passed – not even the surrounding ravens made a sound. She placed a hand on the hilt of her newly acquired sword, beginning to wonder how much it had really meant. He was given the benefit of the doubt in the matter.

“Have you decided what will happen to Jaime?” she asked him, still in a confronting manner. 

“No. I’m not sure what to do.”

“When you think of him, what do you feel?”

“Not much. Dislike.”

“That’s a start. But I don’t think he’ll last lo-“

“Littlefinger’s offer.”

Meera was taken off guard but quickly got on her mind on the same subject. “What of it?”

“Would you take it?”

In the very instant the words were spoken, her heart began to pump violently. “I’m not sure,” she began tentatively. “I suppose it would depend.”

“On what?” he searched.

“I think you know what.”

Bran nodded slowly, his eyes not steering away from hers. Perhaps this was the chance her truest, undiscovered feelings had waited for. The hollowness of his gaze became filled with the sparks of want and trust floating in the room. It warmed her cheeks. 

“I wouldn’t leave you,” she said. “But what do you think of it?”

“But you could get to see your family again.”

“My place is with you, Bran.”

“And mine at Winterfell.”

Expecting him to answer she had hoped and foolishly anticipated, would have been too much, too satisfactory to be real. But she had to keep herself cool. “So you won’t leave?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, now looking at his feet. “But you’d follow if I did?”

Her hand quickly went to his, grabbing it firmly. Bran initially attempted to pull his hand to himself, but soon surrendered. Meera’s voice became low and dull at the conversation. “No, wait. We can’t. It wouldn’t work, not now. We have to think of House Stark, you and your siblings. The North won’t do with Littlefinger at the helm.”

She kept holding his hand even though he didn’t answer. “Are we going to feed the ravens ourselves from now on?”

“That was the intention. I have a purse to store the bread in. Then I can feed them away from the basket.”

His hand wanted to pull out of her grip, but she’d lose him if she did. He wasn’t ready for that. Not yet, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just made a few changes to Jaime's and Bran's conversation in the last chapter, but nothing significant.


	7. Jaime Interlude II

The realisation of the precarious position he had placed Brienne in, was only dawning on him during the past few days. In contrast to his previous self, he wasn’t exactly as concerned about his own life as he was about hers. This was in spite of the increasing passiveness she had treated him with in the recent days – this was no doubt a consequence of going into country she’d never been to before, perhaps not even scouted. On the other hand, he hadn’t either – at least not with anyone but his sister. Understandably they hadn’t taken it all the way, which was probably for the best for both of them, even if they instinctively desired it.

This was of course only one of the reasons behind his recent discord with the woman he loved. Loved, yes, that was the word to use, after all. It would be dishonest to say that Brienne had been the only one he’d talked to after his initial meeting upon his arrival, as much as he wanted it. Littlefinger was quick to suddenly request access to his room shortly following Brienne’s first visit. After the conversation with Baelish, Jaime had not seen much of Brienne. Not that seeing her would necessarily endanger her further, but he imagined guilt would build up upon seeing her more often than not. A shame.

Seeing Littlefinger dead was currently quite high on his list of priorities. During his time in the Kingsguard of Robert, he was always aware of Lord Baelish pulling strings where no one could see them, but he didn’t care. That man could’ve pulled as many strings as he wanted. But becoming one of those whom he pulled, Jaime stood forced to act against the man if necessary. However, therein lied the problem; acting would do him no good. Littlefinger had been adept, placing himself amongst the highest ranking of wherever he turned. The man had always been good at that game – if he wasn’t able to earn trust, he forced them to rely on him anyway.  
Not that rely was the correct phrasing. Perhaps coercion would be better suited, as Jaime hadn’t agreed willingly. In fact, he hadn’t even agreed. But Littlefinger knew too well to know if he’d break the tacit agreement or not. 

She knocked on the door. He could tell it was her - who else would bother or desire to visit him? Jaime tepidly went to open the door. This time would do. 

“I wanted to speak with you.”

“Well, you’re at the right place then,” he said, not moving aside, as would be natural. 

“Can I come in?”

“Of course”

He reluctantly invited her inside, hoping his reluctance didn’t come off as personal. His beard hadn’t been shaved since he arrived at Winterfell - maybe this would remind Brienne of their travels what felt so long ago. He wished that it at least wouldn’t disappoint her.

“It’s been days since we last spoke,” he said while looking at whatever inanimate object was in his eyesight. “So why now?”

She bowed down to the height of his eyes; Jamie was sitting on the bed. “I just wanted you to know you’re not forgotten.”

He scoffed, laughing lightly. “And why would I be forgotten? Why would I be forgotten by anyone at Winterfell? It’s the home of the Starks! I wounded their lord and pushed his son out from a tower. They’ll be the last to forget, I fear.” The very last bit was a lie, though. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you before now,” she responded. Jaime could tell she was gathering composure. “It’s just… After, you know.”

With understanding, he nodded. “I apologise if you felt obliged to anything.”

“No, it’s not that. Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t make me not”

Judging by her initial smile, if his beard had disappointed, his words easily overcame it. Different types of women had different types of smiles, he’d noticed. It was easy to tell which were real and which were not. Brienne’s smiles were only genuine and always born of emotion. Margaery’s were sweet, innocent and sincere on the surface, but anyone but her father, Joffrey and poor Tommen could tell this was only to manipulate. The girl was good at it though, or, had been. Cersei’s were one of two things: either filled with satisfaction from a vicious action; or a forced smile, which Jaime could always tell to be disconnected from her mind - most of the latter were always mocking, too. By living in King’s Landing for the majority of his life, Brienne’s type was a rarity to him. 

“You shouldn’t lock yourself up in this chamber,” she continued. “Go outside - train with a dummy, wander the woods, something but sitting there!”

“I doubt the lovely people of Winterfell would enjoy the sight of a one-handed, Northmen killing Lannister.”

“That didn’t stop you a few days past,” she argued. “I saw you stare at the armies of the North and the Vale venturing south to the Riverlands.”

Their cause only just dawned on him now. “South… To Riverrun?”

“Indeed - they intend to give Edmure Tully his seat back as Lord of Riverrun”

“You’re the best warrior in this grey, incredibly dull castle. So why do you stay here, when your Lady’s proclaimed war in the South?”

“I can’t leave Her Grace alone with… Him.”

‘At least she hadn’t lost her wits’ he thought. “You’re right. You’re her… ‘Queensguard’. The captain of it even, I’d suppose.”

“I suppose I would be.”

“Is it for women only?”

“I’d doubt it,” she smiled. “I’d also doubt she’d let you be a part of it.”

“Is it Littlefinger’s intention to create one?”

“What do you mean?”

“You already know what,” he answered, annoyed at her imaginary folly. “I know him; if that’s what he desired, he’d have it made. Will you deny it was his idea to storm the Riverlands with the armies?”

Her silence was enough answer.

“Thought so. I’ve spent too much time among his kind... “ He held a short pause, tensioning the room. “Be glad you aren’t still trapped in King’s Landing.”

“I quite well noticed the behaviour of the Capital, thank you. I’m not a good liar though, I’ll give you that.”  
Jaime swallowed the bitterness quickly - hers, as well as what his poor choice of words had left in his mouth.

“He’s… Close to Queen Sansa. She follows his advice and he seems a competent counsellor.”

“Why do you tell yourself that? You know perfectly well that’s not the case.”

“I don’t have time to explain”

Of course she had. She just didn’t want to. He understood that - he couldn’t come out either. 

“What is important, is you not sitting here. Every moment you spend in this room only makes you more miserable!” she continued.

“And what do want me to do?!” he hit back, answering her frustration with equal amounts of anger. It had come suddenly. Scary how one could change mood so unconsciously. 

Caught off guard, she regained sobriety. “Go to Lord Brandon and Queen Sansa. Don’t offer your services, they don’t want it. Beg forgiveness. Please.”

He could have her killed one way or the other, of course. He had made a concrete example of his threat, but that wasn’t relevant. Lord Baelish was a man of many resources, even if he hadn’t had Queen Sansa tightly in his grip. Jaime had to laud the man for quickly realising his weakness, but the fact discouraged him immensely nevertheless. Sending her off to negotiate on Sansa’s behalf with Cersei was a certain way of having her dead. Evil smiles tend to defeat the good ones, unfortunately.  
He wanted to tell the Queen of Littlefinger’s deeds, he truly did. Surely, despite being thoroughly manipulated, she would be able to see sense were Jaime to spill the secrets of King’s Landing. Doing that now would be a sure way to have both Brienne and Littlefinger killed, and he ultimately cared little for the life of the latter. It would thus produce little for Jaime to enjoy.  
The one-handed knight wasn’t sure on exactly how the little advisor would have Brienne murdered, but Jaime knew enough about loss to know it wasn’t something he was willing to risk. He shook the frightening thoughts out of his head. 

Littlefinger wasn’t alone in being able to scare Jaime; Brandon Stark, or Lord Stark, was as well. Whether it was his eerie attitude or simply because of their history, he wasn’t sure. The recurring nightmares had also revolved much around the push all those years back, a voice punishing him for the deed, one moment ferociously, the next calmly; both equally unsettling. Nightmares were a rarity to Jaime, not having experienced them since childhood. He found it strange they had suddenly made a return to his sleep.

Having served several years in the Kingsguard, waiting outside with nothing but the very door you were guarding to stare at, Jaime did not mind the expected small wait. Brienne had gone inside to announce Queen Sansa of his upcoming plea, giving her time to prepare different ways of rejecting him. 

The wheels of terror were creaking against the stone floor nearby. The chair to which they belonged, were as always pushed by the unusually short Reed girl. Meera, her name was. Brienne had informed him - not that it was important, and Jaime had never been good at names anyway. Jaime stepped aside so that the two may pass into the room, but his eyes were flickering all over the place, unable to settle with either searching Brandon’s eyes or avoiding them. It was easy to tell what the Lord’s own had settled with, however, as Jaime could feel their stare burn his face, heating it up intensely. Meera’s were on him as well, but hers didn’t burn; not likely that they were with a cooling effect, though. 

Inside the room were the same he had been with on the night of his arrival, aside from two guards, and Jaime expected no different results. They had placed themselves in a half circle, making him the centre of attention - which was only fitting, of course. Without a word, they stared both judgingly and expectantly at him. 

Jaime turned his face towards Brandon, who looked so distant and uncaring Jaime might as well have looked at a face carved into a wall. He drew his sword from the sheath, causing Meera to step forward while placing a hand on the sword of her own. She was quickly halted by Brandon however, who stretched his arm to hinder her advancement. 

Jaime went to his knees, dropping the sword at the feet of the crippled lord. He hadn’t prepared any concession speech, and his mind went starry as words exited his mouth.  
“I beg you, Lord Brandon,” he said. “Forgive me for my crimes. I’ve never held anything against your person. Never have I regretted something as much as I do that.”

“I’d recommend you speak the truth when begging,” Brandon plainly said. “There are things you regret more.”

“Wha- what? And what would that be?”

“Don’t answer back!” Jaime was promptly kicked in the back by one of the guards, causing him to lie flat on the ground. He slowly regained his position onto his knees. 

“I’m not sure what you meant, Lord Brandon. But I beg you, and promise you, that I’ll do anything to repay it.”

“Hard for a Lannister to pay his debts when cut off from Lannister gold,” Baelish commented. 

Jaime couldn’t help but be annoyed by his phoney ignorance. “Gold wouldn’t give Lord Brandon his legs back.”

“But what you offer will?” Sansa spat, pushing Jaime further into the ground. 

“No, it won’t. My life is in your hands, and you may do whatever you wish with it. I do not care what you do to me, as long as it helps House Stark.”

“Even if I were to sentence your death?” Bran asked. 

“Even if you were to sentence me to death,” Jaime answered, just managing to hold back trembling and hesitation. 

Meera went to Brandon’s ear, whispering something into it. The rest of the room was quiet, eagerly holding their breath in anticipation of the Lord’s decision. His eyes went to his sister’s. “What do you propose?”

“Execution would be a quick way to dispose of him and rid him from Winterfell.”

“I do not mean to take your decision from you, but having him executed would mark the beginning of Stark power in the North. Avenging his crimes on your orders will only help to solidify your presence as Lord of Winterfell. Furthermore, it would send a sound message to Queen Cersei, in addition to being an act your subjects would find commendatory,” Littlefinger argued, most likely dooming Jaime.

“You are in deep favour of killing him,” Brandon said, looking directly at Littlefinger. “Wonder why.”

Lord Baelish studied Lord Brandon’s face from across the room. He had clearly been surprised by something. “I am. I simply presumed your preference, My Lord. But if not execution, then… What, My Lord?”

“I don’t know.”

Littlefinger turned his face to Jaime. “You wanted to serve the North?”

Jaime nodded. 

“Then I suggest we have him sent to the war in the South, to prove what he’s capable of and that he is willing to serve under a Northern banner. Forcing him to battle against men of his own will show his nature. Would you be able to do so?”

“I would,” Jaime answered, though not looking at the one who asked the question. Brandon remained immovable. 

“He is known for his abilities as a general,” Sansa agreed. 

“The North and the Vale can cooperate without a Lannister to guide them. He does not deserve to fight amongst the ranks of honest men,” Brandon said, denying Jaime his only redeeming asset. In the corner of his eye, Littlefinger was fumbling his beard beneath a small mouth.

“Honest men? Tell me how your Northerners are more honourable on the battlefield, how you’re more worthy of killing enemies than we, how -” 

Again, he was interrupted by a guard pushing him to the floor. This time he held his foot on his back until Bran told him to stop. “I’m sorry, My Lord” the guard apologised. “But you shouldn’t let a Lannister answer you like that.”

Bran was just about to answer the guard when Meera took the word instead. “It’s alright. We’ll manage him from now on.” The guards bowed, apologised one more time and left the room. 

“I apologise as well, My Lord, My Queen. I let my anger run off with me. I… I'm… I just want this to end. I dragging towards my final act, and I want it to be one that will benefit you.”

“Nothing will happen to you right away. Brienne, lead him back,” Bran ordered. 

Brienne wore her face as if it was a chore, Jaime concluded. Had she not, it would make Winterfell a better place as of now. The only thing she needed to bring forth her beauty was for her to simply smile. But she was refusing him that happiness. 

“Did you expect them to open an apology with open arms?”

“No, but I had hoped we might’ve figured something out.”

“Well, we didn’t,” Jaimes said, defeated. “At least Brandon didn’t ask for my head.”

“Lord Brandon” Brienne corrected. “I thought you said you’d accept that as well.”

“And I would - but that’s not to say I’d like to,” Jaime answered. 

“I suppose. But you didn’t tell them.”

“Why would I want to tell them that? I just told you I didn’t want to have my neck cut off.”

“You should be honest. Especially with Lord Brandon.”

“I never understood what he meant.”

“Neither did I. But I don’t think it’s something I can know.”

Jaime began digging into his mind and memory, trying to find something worse he had done than attempting a child murder practically whilst committing incest. He had left many to die on battlefields, he had been willing to sacrifice soldiers in battle, had openly committed treason to his former King he had sworn to protect. His search failed to uncover any atrocities matching the despicableness of crippling Brandon. Whatever it was he had done, surely he could redeem it somehow. ‘Somehow.’ 

“Do you know why Littlefinger wanted me dead?” he asked Brienne. He was already aware of the answer, but he wanted to hear if she did. 

“I’m not sure… Maybe the things he stated” Brienne reluctantly answered, clearly not convinced by her own words. “Do you?”

“No,” he answered, a bit too quickly. “But I suspect he simply dislikes me.”

“As he supports House Stark, it is understandable.”

“So why don’t you?” he asked teasingly, smiling at the taller woman.  
She gave him a light push in response, blushing lightly. ‘Not even warrior ladies are safe from blushing’ he thought to himself, amused. 

“I get it, I get it,” he said. His hand then reached for hers, firmly. “I’m sorry if I pushed you into something you didn’t want.”

“You didn’t,” she quickly answered, assuring him. “Only…”

“You hadn’t done it before?”

“Exactly.”

“We can’t be together. I just wanted to make sure you know that - I don’t want to trick you into something impossible.”

“I’m quite aware, Jaime.” He loved the rare occasions when he heard his name spoken aloud by her. Those moments served to prove that not only ladies could blush. In addition, hearing it made him feel closer to her.

“I don’t think Queen Sansa will ever agree to it if we proposed it.” He couldn’t get the thought out of his head.

“I know. And it won’t do to dwell on it.”

“It is a nice thought though, don’t you think?” Despite his truest intentions, a boyish fantasy, only of more late life motives, overtook him. 

“I think so too, yes. A Tarth and Lannister living together at Winterfe-”

She was cut off by Jaime’s instinctive behaviour. He had developed it with Cersei, and he had yet to grow away from him. It always came after speaking a little with his sister and it acted as a steeled ram against any defence he put up against it. It forced him to place a hand on Brienne’s lower right cheek, turning her face to his. The tall woman did not back away from the deep kiss, making him dare to include his tongue. Cersei had always enjoyed tongue while kissing.  
This was Brienne’s first time kissing with tongue, clearly. Her own did not really respond, allowing him into her mouth. Her armour hindered his hands to touch as he did this, but probably for the best. Progression had to be made step by step, touching different variants of romance here and there. 

She pushed him off her. Both went completely silent, creating an awkward mood in the room. Jaime vouched that both of them were asking themselves whether what they had just done was worth it. It was in all honesty quite silly - it was only a kiss, after all. It was thoughts like these Jaime knew to be of his former self. 

Brienne broke the silence. “I… I should leave. Sansa needs me.”

She didn’t right now of course, but Jaime could take a hint. She left his room with haste as if embarrassed by what they had done. He hoped that was not the case. 

Going outside from his chamber, the evening was upon the day. Early evening, granted, but still almost as dark as night. There would still be some time till the servant came with the food. 

Bored, frustrated and a tiny bit afraid, he started wandering the castle. He searched for the tower where it had happened. It was quite tall, he recalled, and with a large hole as well. His efforts were not futile; after having wandered somewhat aimlessly, it finally stood before him. The hole was placed quite high up as well, as were to be expected. He pondered whether or not he should enter it, but in the end, he decided not to. 

He heard someone stepping closer to him, not cautiously. This could either mean that he should either fear nothing or all. Fortunately, it was Meera, the Crannog daughter of Howland Reed, who had approached him

“Lady Meera,” Jaime greeted. 

The girl did not answer. Looking closer, it was obvious that she was nervous, for some unknown reason to Jaime. A raven bashed its wings as it planted itself in one of the branches of a nearby tree. 

“So, you’re the reason we’ve been dragging Bran for years.”

“I am,” he admitted. 

“My father shared his spite for you with Lord Eddard.”

“I don’t remember to have the pleasure of meeting your father.”

“That doesn’t matter - he’s not here anyway.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

She just stared at him, studying his face. Her face was evidently one of distress as she did so. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, attempting to make conversation.

“Perhaps,” she said. “I just wanted to see who you were.”

“I think ‘a despicable man’ would be a primary answer if you asked any Northerner.”

“Are you?”

Jaime shrugged. “Have been, under all circumstances.”

“Have you changed?”

“I like to think I have.”

“That’s good.”

A silence erupted and was broken.

“Have you been asked to spy on me?” he asked jokingly. 

“I would’ve been a terrible spy if that were the case.” 

Jaime chuckled lightly at the answer. “Then why are you here? It’s dangerous for Northerners to be seen in the company of Lannisters”

“I care little for what others think of me.”

“Good thing you don’t live in King’s Landing”

She ignored his comment. “I’ve wanted to ask you: Why are you here?”

“You’ve been present both of the times I’ve told why.”

“Is it really the truth?”

“It is.”

“We can’t forgive you for what you did.”

“I know. I don’t expect you to.”

“It’s just… You should know…” she searched for words, either because she didn’t have them on her mind or because she was unsure of what to say. “You should know you’re not alone, in hating him. We all do at Winterfell.”

“Who?”

“The man who wants you dead.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“I may be an ally of House Stark, but I have no idea who you are. I like to give people chances.”

“That’s awfully dangerous.”

“It is. But if we didn’t, who would we have to turn to?”


	8. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until recently I had been severely demotivated for unknown reasons. That's not an excuse for a late update, but sooner an explanation.

During the entire time they had spent together, none in the group had ever spoken much of namedays. It had never been relevant to any of them and it was far beyond their ability to keep track of them. Any sense of time but that of the cycle of day and the advancing winter was often lost as the days blended together due to their tremendous similarity. Only certain events managed to mark one day from the other; this had been applicable to their travels till they had reached the cave. She now knew the answer to be several years, but during the time spent amongst the snowy mountains and their equally snowy winds, anyone could’ve convinced Meera it had only been a few months. Time lost its omnipotence when far away from men and their castles.  
As a result, it made little sense handing gifts to congratulate one of the members’ nameday. Meera had quickly forgotten her own, even Jojen’s, but she ever so often wondered if the other’s cared. She had come to the conclusion they didn’t, and there were far greater worries to be concerned about. Upon arriving at Winterfell from Castle Black, she had not cared either to keep track of time; at least, much less so than before they journeyed north. 

Still, Meera decided this was not to get in the way of the joy gifts potentially brought. Bran had begun to spend more time with his ravens, having taken the task of feeding them from maester Wolkan and the servant girls. He now always seemed to have at least one by his side. As he had gifted her a sword, she wanted to give him something in return. It wasn’t anything of importance, of course, yet it served as a kind reminder of her home at the Neck. The little crocodile skin purse hadn’t been put to her use in a long time ever since the gates to Castle Black had opened to them. Bran had his own purse already, but Meera wanted to show him kindness, despite that he had not shown her much. The little Reed girl had always been stubborn and insistent, even in kindness. 

The raven which usually followed her around seemed to pay closer attention as she went to the Godswood. It kept flapping determinately from point to point, stopping to eye her until she passed its position – at least this way, she was aware that Bran was actively keeping watch. The fact that Bran could see everything at any time, herself included, undeniably made her feel vulnerable at times, yet along with it came a sense of protection. 

In contrast to his regular position, he wasn’t facing the Heart Tree today. Instead, she saw him talking with his ravens, casting glances at the surrounding trees and the pool just by his side. He gave her one as she approached. A raven flew onto his chair before he spoke. 

“You’ve been speaking to Jaime.”

She couldn’t halt herself from being a little disappointed. “Am I not allowed to do so?”

“You are…” he gave in. “Not many Northerners would appreciate it.”

“They can dislike me for it all they want. They don’t like Crannogs like me anyway – it hasn’t stopped me before. Do you care for their appreciations?”

“I’m Lord of Winterfell, Meera. I have to.”

“Stop it already. You’re the Three-Eyed Raven and everything that comes with it.” Meera cleared her throat slightly. “What the soldiers and guards and townsfolk think of his companion is not one of those things. You know so already.”

“Jaime’s not a friend of Winterfell. He can’t be.”

She took a few steps towards him. “I know, he won’t be – I’m not trying to make him one. But he is here by his free will, after all. That counts for something.”

“He assaulted my father in an open street, Meera.”

“Then why is he still alive? That’s obviously not what you want, yet he remains free to roam the castle.”

Her prince immediately retreated into himself at her testy comment. “I haven’t decided what to do yet.”

“I couldn’t understand what it feels like to house such a man. I’m sure you’ll know what to do.”

“When Jaime arrived that night – my eyes could have been anywhere else.” He said. “I don’t always control what I see.”

Despite being the Three-Eyed Raven, the seer of everything, he seemingly didn’t know everything. “It could be that you see what you need to see.”

“I would have learned of Jaime’s arrival nonetheless.”

“Yes, but your visions wanted you to see him nevertheless.”

“Sometimes I’m shown things I don’t want to see.” He coldly replied, brushing off her argument while partly agreeing. “But perhaps.”

Meera took the implied end of their conversation as an opportunity to do what she came for. She moved just in front of him and began to untangle the purse from her belt. While doing so, she felt a slight heat rising to her head and an increased beating of her heart. ‘Stop’ her mind ordered herself but to no avail. Getting nervous with a person she had spent so many years alongside made her feel silly. 

“What would you have me do with him?” he asked her. Meera’s thoughts were cut off and replaced with wondering whether his question was out of curiosity or if he was actually looking for advice. 

She sighed before answering – however, not from frustration, but from gathering strength. She neither dared nor wanted to disappoint or anger Bran, but that concern came second to lying. “You said he wasn’t a friend of Winterfell or the Starks, to which I agree. But I stand by my opinion – you shouldn’t kill him. He doesn’t deserve that. Send him to the Wall instead, or use him as a bargaining piece in warring against that… Dragon queen. I understand if you do have him executed though, my prince. It’s your decision to make.”

“I can understand why you want to keep him alive,” he answered, the tension on his face loosening slightly. “It’s the same reason I want him to.”

Meera’s smile wasn’t equally reciprocated by him. She vividly remembered his smile; yet the last he gave her had faded from her memory. Still, although her satisfaction was deteriorating for each one, she appreciated whenever they could find something to agree upon – even if she wasn’t quite sure of what he spoke. 

The crocodile purse was now in her hand. They both looked at it a bit before she offered it to him. She felt even sillier now. 

“It’s from the Greywater – my father killed the crocodile himself and had a craftsman make the purse for me.”

Bran stared blankly and unaltered at the object. His eyes turned to hers after a few seconds, now confused. Meera became so too. 

“I wanted you to have it. It’s not of much use to me while living in Winterfell anyway, and since you’ve begun to feed the ravens yourself… I just figured you could use it.”

His gloved right hand was raised into the air, holding a small leather purse. His eyes questioned her, digging into her own. “I already have a purse.”

Her tongue didn’t cooperate with her mind. “Oh…” it blurted as if making an apology, which was far from what she wanted to. She tried to think of a way he would accept her gift, but couldn’t come up with any. That purse was the only thing that she could really gift him – she didn’t have anything he didn’t. He had already been the recipient of her protection, help, warmth, even her brother’s life, in a way. Attempting to convince him to accept it would be futile. Meera felt disappointed. 

He lowered his own leather purse to his lap, continuing to look at her, still somewhat confused. His stare allowed for the entrance of an excruciating awkward break from speech. 

She replaced the crocodile skin purse with the mundane sword Bran had had made for her. “I had a sword before this, one I took from the cave. You ordered me to give it away, so I did. I didn’t care for the sword itself, you know. I cared that you ordered it from me. I accepted this sword as an apology, but I would’ve accepted it even if I still had my previous one. You know that, don’t you?”

Bran’s eyes strayed from hers, searching for something they couldn’t find, before returning. “I didn’t give you that sword.”

The slight anger which had built up in her was replaced with further disappointment, sprinkled with annoyed curiosity. “Gendry said you ordered it. For me.”

“He was told it had been my order. It wasn’t.” He stated. Meera felt her face and limbs drowning in a myriad of emotions. “Sansa told the guard to say the sword was on my orders. She wanted you to have it.”

“Oh Bran…” she mumbled, as her body began to show its inability to contain the drowning sensations through shiver. 

“My father always valued honesty and truth the most.”

The words made the sword fall from her hand and her knees to become weak. ‘Yes, and he’s also dead because of it’ she wanted to say, but couldn’t get it past her lips. The sword, which was now lying in the snow just beside her, had meant something if not much. It was bland, rather short, uninteresting to look at, but all that didn’t matter. It had been a gift. Suddenly, it wasn’t even that any longer. She silently turned around and began to leave the Godswood. 

“I can have one made for you.” He offered as she was wandering off. 

Meera failed to see what results answering could have produced. With her head feeling dizzy, she could feel the snow pressing together under feet – a feeling she had become so accustomed to from years of actually doing it, it now felt like an unknown sensation.  
Exiting the Godswood, she began to grow curious of the dramatic response she had just given her Prince. At least it felt dramatic to her, but she was unable to make sense of why. It had only been a sword and a purse, after all. Yet she felt as if time was running out, as if certain, unidentifiable requirements weren’t being fulfilled.  
She knew where those requirements came from, though. They weren’t specific, but they still hung above the other thoughts within her mind. It was a matter of accepting she had them. For some time now, the root of those expectations, and the disappointment they could provide was clear to her somewhere inside her mind. It had neither come immediately nor all of a sudden but had developed through time. A part of her loved him, a part that wanted to be expressed and reciprocated, but was neither. 

In order to keep the ravens outside, she closed the windows tightly. She was aware it didn’t have any practical effect, that Bran could still watch her all he wanted, but it was her way of showing rejection. After wandering aimlessly back and forth inside her chamber, she left it. She desired to speak to the person who had actually given her that sword.  
On her way to the solar of the Queen in the North, the walls felt isolating and their greyness dismissive. They hadn’t given off such an impression previously. It made her walk faster, almost as if stressed. 

Meera was just going up the stairs leading to the solar when the Queen came descending from them. 

“Meera!” she exclaimed, smiling. “I was just about to go find you myself.”

She forced her mouth to answer the smile. “Oh. Where do you wish to speak?”

“We can just go back to the solar – Lord Baelish has just left, so that we could speak in solace. If you wish?”

She did. 

 

Meera thanked the servant boy pouring her some boiling tea, even though she didn’t want it. Sansa laid aside some of the papers lying on the table, to make room for discussion.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Meera asked. 

“So did you, Meera.” Sansa replied. “Do go ahead.”

Meera adjusted herself before speaking. “I spoke with Bran, just now -“ she trailed off, realising she hadn’t prepared what to say. 

“Yes?”

“I learned it was you who gave me the sword.”

Their eye contact broke at the words. Sansa looked down at the table, then her lap as she leaned back into the chair. “I told Bran there was no need in telling.”

“You could just’ve said it was from you.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it more if it came from Bran.”

“And I would have – had it been from him. But instead, he becomes the one to tell me it didn’t.”

“I’m... Sorry, if it created any discord between you and Bran.” Sansa stated, firmly locking their eyes together. “I truly am.”

“What did you expect from it? That I wouldn’t find out? To bind us with lies? It wouldn’t have helped.” Meera said, offended. She was answering more at Sansa than responding. Meera’s outburst created silence for a short moment. 

Just as Sansa began to open her mouth, Meera took the word. “I – I'm sorry, Sansa. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me.”

Meera managed to smile nonetheless, this one genuine as she realised little to no fault lied with the Queen. “That’s nothing to worry about. We all just want what is best for each other.”

Sansa’s face softened at the remark. “Bran too.”

She swallowed. “I suppose he does.”

“I know he does. You know too.” She smiled.

“It’s just… It can be hard to tell, at times.” Meera confessed. “Hadn’t I known him before, I’m not sure I would be of the same opinion.”

“Which is only understandable. I think that Bran maybe has become a bit – overwhelmed at returning to his home. He needs time to adjust.”

“We all do, don’t we?” Meera jokingly said. 

“Indeed. I had to as well when I came here while the Boltons occupied the castle. But Bran needs a little more than usual, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would, yes.”

“Which is why I’ve been considering if he maybe needs some time for himself, to cope.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure – perhaps he needs to be tended more than anything.”

Sansa sighed. “I’ll be frank then, Meera.”

“About what?”

Sansa stood up from her chair, went to the window. “I’m waging a war in the Riverlands. Men are fighting and losing their lives to reclaim town after town, castle after castle in the Tully name. And while the war is going very well, there have been some inconveniences.”

“Such as?”

“We have received reports of rebels marching north, through the Neck. They are not a large force, but the expendable forces from Winterfell and most other houses are already off to fight the war to free Edmure Tully. But we need to defend the North. And that is why we may need your father’s assistance.”

“My father helped yours, both personally and with soldiers. I’m sure he’d do it again.”

“That is what I was hoping for. But he needs to be informed of our request, and from what I know, ravens can’t be sent to the Greywater.”

As if someone snapped their fingers in front of her face, she realised where Sansa was going. “And you want me to be the messenger.”

“Indeed – you’re the only one here who is able to find the castle itself.”

‘But couldn’t Bran just warg a raven till he finds it? Surely, he could do it as well’ Meera wanted to say but didn’t. Sansa had to be aware of her brother’s abilities, at least to some extent. Yet the Queen wanted Meera to go instead. 

“You’re right, I am.” Meera hesitantly replied. 

“I’m not asking you to leave Winterfell – I’m asking for your help. I know it’s dangerous, but with the archery I’ve seen you practice, it’ll only be dangerous for those you meet.”

“And you’re sure Bran will manage in that time?” she asked, putting on her curious and unaware voice. She wanted to test Sansa.

“Of course. Besides, you’ll get to your mother and father again – I’m certain both have missed you.”

“I’m sure too,” Meera mumbled as she felt her heart sink further that it was. The odd dizziness overtook her senses once more. Her next sentence was muffled immensely to her own ears. “I’ll… Have to think it through.”

“Naturally, Meera. Take your time.”

 

Apparently, Arya had been searching for her and had awaited her at the end of the stairs leading to Sansa’s solar. The natural coolness she wore was just as unsettling to Meera as if she had deliberately shocked her.  
In addition to her usual expression, Arya seemed more distressed than normal – disturbingly more, in fact. She told Meera to follow her, and on their walk to the outdoors, her stiff, determined quick walk accompanied by focused glances over her shoulders, revealed both anger and uneasiness. Meera became slightly so too, as a result. 

She stopped to look at the smithy’s, allowing the hammer strikes from its inside to be heard through the silent wind. Arya then turned to Meera, pulling a letter from a pocket. Her eyes matched the cold of winter. 

“I’m going to kill them.” She stated. “Both”

Meera closed the distance between, hesitating to answer. “Who?” she then asked. 

“My egotistical sister and that slimy advisor of hers.” 

“You can’t do that” Meera vainly said, knowing it was a futile answer. She wasn’t able to come up anything much better due to the suddenness of Arya’s statement. 

“I can. Neither of them can stop me.” She said, now getting angrier with every word. 

“She’s your own sister, Arya. Would you honestly want to kill your own family?”

“I have family elsewhere.” She answered, turning her head to the smithy’s. 

“You have Bran, yes, but that will be it.”

“I said, ‘elsewhere’. Or didn’t you catch that?”

“Why would you ever want to do that?!” Meera exclaimed, her voice raised a result of frustration. She was getting mad from perpetual discord amongst the Stark siblings. “Why?”

Arya clenched her teeth behind her lips, raising her hand with the letter in it. She was handing it to her. 

“What is that?” Meera asked, frustrated. 

“A letter I found in ‘Lady Stark’s’ solar, hidden inside a locked drawer.”

“And yet you found it.”

“And yet I did.”

Meera got within reaching distance of her offering hand. She wasn’t surprised nor shocked to learn of Arya sneaking around looking in drawers – she was disappointed more than anything. They had agreed to keep an eye on Littlefinger, not Sansa. “What does it say?”

“You can read it yourself.” She coldly responded, forcing it into Meera’s hand, now looking her in the eyes. 

The extensive length of the letter was revealed as Meera unfolded it. She cast a glance down at its entirety and quickly noticed the complete absence of misplaced ink, as well as the beautiful style it was written. It read: 

“To Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, the Unburnt and the Breaker of Chains  
It is with great discretion that I address you, and I do hope that this letter is brought to you accordingly.  


I won’t waste ink on further formalities – it ought to be no secret that our individual goals are ultimately conflicting and therefore incompatible with their desired end result. You claim the Iron Throne, the one that rules over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. As Queen in the North, I cannot accept that claim.  


But it is for this very reason that I have sought to address you. Your claim lies solely upon the legitimacy of the Targaryen Dynasty, which, to everyone’s knowledge, was effectively removed under Robert’s Rebellion, the one you call Usurper. Furthermore, your claim also rests on the idea that no other Targaryens are alive, and it is therefore a matter of course that the Throne should then be yours. I support you in that regard.  


As the holder of a title such as “Breaker of Chains”, I assume that you are of peaceful intent in Westeros, and would seize King’s Landing peacefully, had you the opportunity. I am of the same idea. I hate war and do all in my power to prevent it unless it is inevitable for the survival of my house. It is to avoid a bloody war and the countless deaths and immense misery it would bring that I wish to cooperate with you.  


You are already familiar with Jon Snow, my bastard brother. Whether or not the news would have been spread to your ears by the time this letter arrives, I do not know – but let me explain the situation if it has not. Jon Snow is not a ‘Snow’, not a bastard of the North. He is not the son of my father, Eddard Stark, and an unknown woman. Prior to venturing beyond the Wall, he resigned his title as King in the North on the basis that he did not have male Stark blood in his veins. Instead, he has that of Lord Eddard’s sister, Lyanna Stark, and that of your very own brother, the late Rhaegar of House Targaryen. In the North, and soon in all of Westeros, this will be common knowledge. If you do not believe me, you are more than welcome to ask him yourself the next time you cross paths.  


The Baratheon House replaced House Targaryen after the Rebellion, and despite that they have already ceased to exist, it remains well-known that Robert Baratheon left many offspring spread across all of Westeros. By far, most are no longer alive, but some have persisted. There remain those nobles and commoners who would rally under the Stag banner, were it to be raised once more. At Winterfell, the seat of my Kingdom and the capital of the North, there is one such offspring residing within its walls.  


Both of these pose a threat to your claim as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. This is why I am inclined to enter negotiation with you, whenever it will suit the both of us. A base for my proposal is as follows.  
\- The establishment of the Northern Kingdom, which would contain the regions known as The North, The Vale and the Riverlands, in which I will remain as a recognised regent.  
\- I will surrender Jon Snow and the Baratheon bastard by the name of Gendry Waters to your mercy and will.  
\- There will be a well-rounded political, economic and military alliance between our two kingdoms, in which both will strive to defend the other in case of turmoil or an external threat.  


War is rarely the solution and it is because of that truth that I beg you to consider my offer.  


From the Queen in the North, Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the First Men.”

Several times while reading and studying the letter, Meera’s eyes met a knowing, borderline smug expression. It did not have the company of a smile though, only a stiff, bitter mouth. After reading it through one first time, she started to be more thorough on specific passages. This wasn’t due to actually analysing, searching or understanding anything she hadn’t already – it was simply the result of bafflement and the confusing feeling that came along. 

“Do you now understand why I’ve decided to kill them?”

Meera rolled the letter back into a scroll. “No,” she said, which was a lie, but she struggled to find meaning in agreeing with the Stark in front of her. 

“No? Did you read it?”

“I did. But I don’t see what killing the Lady of Winterfell and Littlefinger would help.”

“They are planning to ship off Jon and Gendry to that... Dragon bitch.” Arya exclaimed, clenching her fists in anger. Meera wasn’t exactly used to the use of such slurs, especially not among nobles. Then again, Arya didn’t quite fit the typical expectations of a noble. “She’ll kill both of them to get that throne. And for all I care, she can have it! But she can’t have neither Jon nor Gendry.”

“Maybe we can talk her out of it – maybe she just needs to see some sense.”

“Littlefinger’s got an all too tight grip on her to sway her.”

“And thus killing them both is the only resolution?”

Arya nodded, almost eagerly. 

Meera’s heart sank as pictures of a struggling, blood coughing, weakening Jojen lying in the deep snow emerged. It was often she thought of him, but she managed to avoid the final act of his life from occurring inside her head. Sure, Arya and Meera didn’t have the same relationship with each of their siblings, but to both, it was family, still. Believing Arya meant what she said was far from impossible, but Meera knew she had not thought much of the moment itself, in which she’d have to kill her. Much less could she have thought of the consequences, both for her emotional state as well as that of Winterfell. 

“I killed my brother, back up beyond the Wall.”

Arya narrowed her eyes in response, possibly intrigued more than sympathetic. “I didn’t know.”

“How could you?” Meera said, a sad smile on her lips. “Neither Bran nor I ever talk of him. He meant everything to me, even though I was the one who took care of him. I could become angry with him too, but I never acted on it. I knew it wouldn’t help.”

“Did he try to kill those closest to you?” she insultingly asked.

“No…-“

“Then I don’t see the point of your story.”

Meera was just as angry as Arya by now, the sorrowful contempt building up in her body. “Then why aren’t they dead yet? Why is it you come to me before killing them both? It’s not like I’m going to stop you - you and I both know I couldn’t.”

“You…” was the answer, still looking for words. “You needed to know of the abhorrent decisions they’re making.”

“Thank you, Arya. But maybe Bran could help us?”

“What would he do? Most of the Winterfell soldiers have left, and it’s not he can exactly do the deed for me.”

“He is still revered as if he was Lord of Winterfell, even he has renounced himself from the title. If he were to read the letter, he possibly could talk Sansa out of it.”

“He’d also need to convince Littlefinger.”

“Sansa is Queen, Littlefinger’s not. If she insists, he will agree.”

“Then go and ask him, if you’re so confident in him.” She almost sarcastically said. “I know you trust him very much. If trust is the correct wording.”

“It is.” Meera stiffly answered. She had every intention of questioning Bran the next time she saw him, and she’d make sure that next time would be soon. “But I want to make sure you don’t go killing your own sister when I’m off to ask him.”

“You can’t stop me from doing it.”

“It would seem so. But if I may…” she began, expecting allowance from Arya. Once she received it, Meera continued. “I think you should reconsider. And if my word isn’t enough, ask for Gendry’s. I know you care lots for him, but I can hardly imagine he’ll commend sororicide. Show him the letter. Ask what he’d do. You know him better than I, but see if he doesn’t agree with me.” ‘For the love of summer and all that is good, I hope he does’. 

¬

On her way to Bran, a decision she made immediately after seeing Arya enter the smithy’s while making firm, determined and fast-paced steps, it occurred to her the reality of what she just had read. While speaking with Arya, Meera had been too focused on hindering possible horrible deeds, to think much on the contents of the letter. The plausibility of Bran not being aware of the letter was minimal, yet it concerned the very life of a man he’d grown up with. Gendry, she could understand he’d sacrifice for peace between two kingdoms, but the lack of empathy for her own sister was close to contemptuous. However much she tried, Meera was persistent in her inability to convince herself Bran had a plan for it all. Even so, she wished he had. 

“Arya just showed me a letter.” She stated, deliberately not attempting to hide her feelings about it. As no answer came, she stepped closer to Bran, who sat by the Heart Tree, as ever. Meera was getting tired, almost sick of continuously having to find him there. 

“I expect you weren’t happy with the contents of it.” He said, stating what was obvious. 

“Indeed, I wasn’t.” She agreed with a hint of scorn. “Arya wasn’t either, but I suppose you already know that. Both of which reveal that you knew about the letter itself.”

“Of course I did. I see most things.” He said with a calm with an effect on Meera’s anger equal to that of blowing on a small, beginning fire. “I thought you knew.”

“I do! But Bran, it’s unfathomable to me why it is you haven’t done anything about it yet! I’ve asked you multiple times to put an end to Littlefinger’s… Whatever he’s doing at Winterfell. I don’t want him here, neither do you, neither does anyone. I can understand your passiveness when it comes to Jaime, but not this man. He’s doing nothing good for anyone but Sansa and himself while being here. Gods, not even Sansa is he aiding. And even when he’s making your sister organize the death of your cousin, you remain inactive.”

She could see her aggressive outburst had had the wanted effect, as she saw a humbled Bran looking down at his lap. Meera figured he knew himself that it was deserved. 

“And now Sansa wants me to go south to assist her in that war of hers.” She sighed in what resembled despair. “I’m not sure what to think anymore” she then admitted, this time reaching for help. 

“She’s in need of it. They’re a threat to the North.” He answered, still avoiding eye contact. 

As she gulped, her heart sank along with the saliva. The dizzying feeling returned. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that your father’s men could assist in defending the North, as they always have. It’d be a chance for you to return to your family for the first time in ages, too.”

Her heart raced as blood rose to her head, reddening it with uncontainable emotions. He really was a prick, unfortunately. “No no Bran, no…” she faintly let out. That boy could send a raven to Greywater himself, but he did not offer it. He wanted her away from Winterfell. “Why do you say that?” she said as her voice increasingly thickened. 

“It’ll be good for you.” He responded, although the traces of hesitation in it were lost in Meera’s emotional trembling. “You can be accompanied by some guards for your safety, if you want.”

Meera didn’t understand. In the one moon or so they had spent at Winterfell since their arrival, the lesser noble, boyish, wild daughter had been sure she’d noticed… something, just some ‘signs’, as Gendry had coined it, from the son of one of the Great Houses of Westeros. Perhaps it was foolish to think that years of loyalty and sacrifice would bring much but a little gratitude, but Meera had sorely wished it wasn’t. 

“You’re going to be left alone with Littlefinger.” She managed to vaguely defend. He simply nodded as a response. She then continued. “Do you really want me to leave?”

This time his eyes met hers. She searched for whatever sympathy that was to be found in them, but her struggles were fruitless. A long, excruciating silence reigned the next few moments. “I need you to. House Stark needs you to, the North needs you to.”

She began to feel almost numb. 

“It’s…” 

“It’s what?” she angrily questioned through slowly watering eyes. 

“Jaime.” 

“What’s with Jaime?”

“Remember what you said? That ‘I see things I need to’? You were right.”

Meera remained unable to compose herself, but she lacked both energy and will to lash out at him. “You’re not making any sense, Bran.”

“I know I’m not. I… Can’t.”

“Why ‘can’t’ you make sense?!” 

“It’s complicated. I’ve seen this, you know.”

“Then tell what’s going to happen, Bran!” 

“I can’t. I don’t know how it will happen, and if I tell you, I’ll disturb it.”

She took a few steps away from him. “So this is it? You’re going to send me off?”

“You’ll return once the task is completed. But there are certain things that need to be done. This is one of them.”

“Did he talk you into this? Or was it Sansa? Why are you suddenly so bloody concerned with the defence of the North?”

“I’m effectively Lord of Winterfell, as you mentioned to my sister. That means taking precautions on defending the North.”

Every one of his words were draining in their effect. They left her powerless and sad, to put it simply. “He’ll kill you, Bran. You mentioned the very reason just now. This is what he wants, to leave you defenceless.”

“I promise you, he won’t. He has already tried once, and that didn’t work. There will be some time before he tries again.”

“You’re mad” she mumbled, not seeing the point in saying it aloud. “So should I bring the thanks and greetings from House Stark to my father?”

“Yes, do that. I hope you’ll travel safely.” He dismissively said. “My sister cut her hair to look like a boy when she was on the road a few years ago. You could do that as well.”

The cup had already been filled to the brink, and now it overflowed. 

“You don’t know anything, do you?! I spent years defending you, feeding you, carrying you mile upon mile all out of loyalty. And what show of gratitude do I receive? Not only one, but two dismisses! All I wanted was for you to thank me, to say you wanted me to stay, that you needed me, anything! And what about what we’ve done while at Winterfell? I know it’s not much, but… We held hands Bran, I kissed your head like I used to! Did that not mean anything at all? Nothing? I’d like to say I’m surprised, I wish I could, but I can’t.  
“I’ll make sure to tell my father how much you’ve taken from your own. He’ll be delighted to hear of how you’ve treated me and those around you. Yes, we’ll go kill some lowlife rebels in your sister’s name, and so what? I’m certain Littlefinger and she will be pleased. It won’t affect either of us two. Yet you insist on having me go. You could just as easily have sent the message yourself.”

With a pitiful voice, he answered: “I said, I can’t disturb what will happen. It would break everything.”

She ignored him completely, noticing the ravens that were all silent and resting in branches, watching. “And you keep those ravens to yourself! I don’t want to see a single one on my journey. I’ll shoot one and eat it for dinner if I do.”

Meera ran off, not looking back at him. In her chamber was everything she needed for the journey. She packed what she could think of as necessary and immediately went on down to the stables. The horse master clearly didn’t anticipate her arrival or her rude facial and bodily expression, and quickly gave her a good steed to carry her. Without a second thought, she was already out of Winterfell through the South Gate.

 

The only thing to accompany her, beside her thoughts, was the crackling coming from the pine branches she used to sustain her fire. It was a nice sound they gave off. They helped comfort her sobbing and dry the tears.


	9. Chapter VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some strong language does occur in this chapter

She normally wasn’t this agitated during hunting, but the adrenaline from the events of yesterday was still flowing through her body. She credited that her aim was still steady to having kept up practising in Winterfell, but it was still slightly more imprecise than usual nevertheless. Meera let go of the string and the arrow shot through the air with immense pace till it hit its target.  
She thanked the Old Gods for her hunting gain, but the piety of the gratitude was meagre. While her mother had always been religious, Father had only done it as a formality. But that was until Jojen began giving signs of greensight. From an underlying jealousy, Meera had pushed faith towards the old gods away from her everyday life. Though since meeting Bran had it been difficult not to believe in the gods of old, but she didn’t know how to actually do so. Instead, she’d contented herself by simply staying loyal to the two boys dear in her life, of which only one grew to be a man. 

Even though she’d already travelled much, compared to other high-born women 20 years of age, she’d never done so alone. She had always had one or more companions alongside her, and she had come to realise that a horse wasn’t a good conversational substitute.  
Despite telling herself that she was okay, that she had made the right decision, a little voice kept saying it wasn’t – that she had overreacted and her departure was an act of selfishness, leaving Bran in the time he needed her the most, even if he wasn’t aware. It told her she’d been disloyal to House Stark, her brother Jojen, Sansa and Bran himself. If she ever wanted to return, she’d receive a bitter and plain welcome in turn of one respecting her service. Maybe even her own father would disapprove of her actions, seeing how highly he prioritises the Reeds’ loyalty and bond with the Starks. 

Having survived and gone unnoticed by the bandits and mercenaries of yesterday, Meera felt more confident in her journey. It was by pure luck that she’d managed to slip past them, only going noticed once. During her escape, she’d drawn an arrow and pointed it at one of the men who was hunting her. Her instincts wanted her to let go of the string, but something told her it would have been wrong. Maybe she just wasn’t ready to kill another human. 

She made herself a good camp, all things considered. Pine trees were her greatest help in these times, being able to create temporary shelter far better than any other tree, while also capable of acting as a sort of mattress. With a half-full stomach and the fire put, she closed her eyes. 

~

What felt like immediately after sleep had overtaken her body, her mind became vaguely awoken; although she was faintly aware of the surroundings, her tired body and limbs remained unable to move. Only her mind had conscience, and even so, only restricted.

Between the distant trees, a shadowy figure became noticeable due to its movement. It moved with slow, controlled steps yet somehow managed to cross disproportionally great lengths through the blurry, fatigued vision of Meera’s eyes, which were threatened by their heavy eyelids. 

She could suddenly stand up without any issue or be stricken by dizziness. In contrast to as of late, she felt light on her feet and full of energy, easily passing what would otherwise have been obstacles. She neared herself to where she’d seen the shadow move, but as she approached and came closer, uneasiness crept into her bones. The figure then revealed itself, looking down at its feet. It was Bran.

“You!” Meera shouted, angry. “I told you not to follow me!”

“You asked my ravens not to follow.” He blatantly answered. 

“By which I meant you!” she said as she went aggressively towards him, feeling the need to strike. Now standing right in front of him, the height difference clear. “I don’t want you here. Leave.”

“I will. But I have to tell you something,” he said, now forced to follow a quickly leaving Meera. 

Despite almost running, Meera was angry more than anything else to find him suddenly appearing before her. “It won’t take long.” He assured her. His eyes revealed that he did not want to be here either. 

“What is it? A plea for my return? That won’t happen, Bran. I decided to leave Winterfell, and you, and I intend to carry out that plan.”

“Good, ‘cause you should. I’m simply here to bring a warning.”

“Against what? I’ve crossed miles in the middle of snowstorm dragging you, fleeing from wights, I’ve survived and travelled the wild for years, what would there be for me to worry about?”

“You’re smarter than that, Meera.” He said plainly, but their eyes were locked all the while. Of course, Meera knew he was right. 

“Why is it you’re here?” she sighed, giving up. 

“You’ve already stumbled upon them.” He said in an explanatory tone. ”They are going to catch you.”

“They are not – I slipped past them. They never got to me.”

“But you’re going to have to let them.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Again, she got angry.

“As I said: they are going to catch you. It doesn’t matter if you want them to or not.”

“Even if I had stayed at Winterfell?” she questioned with spite. “Even then, Bran?”

The Prince and heir of the North was turned into a tall boy, humbled. “No.”

“Yet you sent me away.”

“You don’t need to understand… I don’t either. Not fully. It’s just that I wanted you to know.”

“Well, now I know you’re the cause of my forthcoming capture. Thank you.”

For the first time in longer what she could remember, Bran got visibly annoyed. He frowned and took a step closer to her, allowing for him to look down at her, more than before. In pure defiance, Meera refused to back off. 

“Some things are bigger than us. You and me both. I try to serve that. This is one of those times.” He then took a step or two back, his brief annoyed expression loosened, but its seriousness remained. “When you’re their captive, do not fear. Things will work out. Trust me.”

“I don’t know who to trust anymore, Bran. But if you sa-“

As her body rose from lying to sitting, she gasped loudly for breath. She looked around; gone was the walking Bran, only to be replaced by the nearby footsteps of several armoured men. Meera instinctively began packing whatever she could and ran as soon as she could, far away from her camp.

“There she is! Get her!” a man shouted, not far from her. 

Using the best of her abilities, Meera jumped and crossed what was in her way, may it be broken branches or seemingly randomly positioned rocks – nothing was a major hindrance to her. Once she reached the end of the forest, she knew it was over, but refused to accept it. Exiting the forest would be way too open to be safe, and turning would cost too much time – there were, after all, several men pursuing her and none were far. Still, she decided to turn left and hoping for the best. The best didn’t last long though, when a large, scarred man came running down from one the hills, full of mad rage from the chase. It was inevitable to avoid him completely. Had Meera had her net, it would’ve been easy to pass him, but now she didn’t even have the sword she’d taken with her from Winterfell, and the last thing she saw was the man’s fist, clenched around a sword, closing in on her face at a rapid pace. 

~

One forgot how much more effective the mouth was at breathing than the nose. It would be taken for granted, and only realised when one became unable to use it. Meera was realising this herself now – her mouth tightly gagged with a dirty cloth, in addition to her hands tied on her back.  
She was lying face down against the cold, frozen ground. They had at least had the decency and respect to allow her to keep the furs and thick clothing on. The mercenaries, or whatever they were, could easily just have taken what clothing was vital to her and left her unconscious, underdressed body to be eaten alive by the cold. Evidently, they hadn’t molested her either. And while those were things to be grateful for, her head was still aching, leaving her mind unfocused and blurry. Still, she doubted whether or not to be thankful for any of this. 

“Hey, pass me the wine,” some middle-aged man with a grungy voice said. A fire was crackling in the distance, the light glowing far beyond the adult figures hiding the source from Meera’s perspective. It was surrounded by a dozen men or so.

Meera raised her torso slightly upwards, gaining a clearer look. They were obviously the armoured professional soldiers she’d encountered previously. As she crawled slightly nearer, their tired expressions were revealed. It was the middle of the night, after all. Meera knew all too well the exhausting effects travelling in cold had on you. 

“Aight, halt already!” another voice commanded. “We aren’t going to have wine for the lot of us if you keep drinkin’ like that.”

“We already don’t! The wine’ll run up soon enough, you know.” The first man answered. “Just trying to ‘ave my share is all.”

It would seem that the man who had told him to stop drinking didn’t like being talked back to – he suddenly rose from his seat and now stood before the man who’d asked for the wine. The former rose as well. 

He took the leather flask from the man. “I didn’t order you to be funny. I ordered you to stop drinking.”

“And now you’re going to drink it, eh? I won’t have it! It’s MY wine, MINE!”

The more composed man simply stared at him until he sat down again. He gave a look around at the men centered around the campfire. “The wine is sparse, men! We have to – “

“So is everthin’ fuckin’ else! The food, the drink, even the fucking whores seem to be missing at times!” a third man sarcastically proclaimed, causing laughter throughout most of the camp. 

“Very funny, eh?” he answered, stretching out the vowels. “There are no whores in the wild, never will be.”

“Argh fuck off will ya? We all bloody know that. No need to cram it further into our skulls.”

“I don’t even know what’re talkin’ ‘bout! We already have a whore!” another man loudly exclaimed, pointing in the direction of Meera. “We even found her in the wild!”

That last comment made several of the men laugh. Meera didn’t find it funny at all but was disgusted by both the comment, the man who said it and the reaction it received. 

“She’s!” the man attempting to assert authority said, also now pointing in Meera’s direction. In the very instant he did so, fright overwhelmed her. “She’s not a bloody whore, or did you that little stupid head of yours forget?”

“Sure as all seven hells looks like a whore to me!” the drunken man answered back, bursting out into laughter at the end of his own sentence. The laughter, once again, was cut short, but this time for good, it would seem. A loud smack could be heard coming from the man who had just spoken, clearly a slap delivered by the authoritative man of the group. Silence erupted. 

“That ‘whore’ might just be our only way out of this frozen land. Hell, if she’s who I think she is, it might just be the only way we’ll survive.”

“How the fuck will we know if it’s her? ‘ave you ever seen her? ‘cause I doubt that even with all your fuckin’ reading Edmund, you’ve ever seen that girl.”

“Right, haven’t seen her before. But who else could it be, a girl that small, alone, armed and armoured, going south from Winterfell?” Edmund answered, gaining a few nods and mumbled agreements here and there. “She’s supposed to be quite agile, as of what I’ve heard. Fast too.”  
Meera searched for something, anything that could assist her. It was incredibly difficult to move much, however, and it seemed an unmountable task to escape, gagged and with hands bound on her lower back, not to mention she would be easy to spot when contrasting the deep snow. It did not completely deter her though, as continued to scout for an opportunity. 

Another man rose from sitting on a log, looking directly at Edmund with a daggering stare. Edmund looked back; the debate was clearly far from over.

“Exactly how will ransoming that girl help us?” he began in a hostile, aggressive tone. “How much do you even expect to gain from it, anyway? A bag o’ gold for each of us? The moment we put up an offer, that bitch’s family will be sending an army straight our way!”

“You know the difference between you and me? Between me and the rest of you?” Edmund began his response with. Whatever peace had just been found a minute or two ago was already long lost. “I’m ‘trying’! Sure, it might not be a certain way of survival. But if you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

The first who had voiced his discontent argued once again: “Why the fuck did we even go up ‘ere in the first place?” He pointed north. “Nothin’ but cold, grey land till you reach the fuckin’ Wall.”

Edmund closed in on the man. “Would you have preferred to stay in the Riverlands, eh? Is that really what you want, Tys? ‘cause then I suggest you fucking go south again!”

“The fuck is there for me to down there? Nothin’, that’s it! As little as there is for me to do here! Either way that red-haired bitch is going to send my sorry ass to down to the Seven Hells once her bloody armoured cavalry shows up.”

“In the words of our captive’s house: Winter is coming. Here, in the Riverla-“

Meera found herself lucky to catch that sentence. It bewildered her nonetheless though, as these were not the words of House Reed he uttered. But the thought couldn’t linger on in her mind. She fought a battle against detection as she managed to crawl slightly further away from the campfire, continuing to search for anything that might help her. Who did they think she was?

“Then why the fuck did you have us march up here? If it’s all the fuckin’ same, why did you force us to go through the Neck?” Tys said, only now getting sincerely riled up. “Or have you already forgotten the two-thirds of our band those fuckin’ frog eating bog devils killed? Or do you simply not care?”  
Edmund took what was coming his way, allowing the man to speak. “In fact, I don’t think you do. You’re all high and mighty on your bloody horse when all of us were fallin’ dead over left and right, getting shot to pieces by the cowardly crocodile fuckers.”

Frog eaters and bog dwellers, or devils, were common derogatory nicknames for the Crannogs, but ‘crocodile fuckers’ wasn’t one of them. Meera had heard Crannogs branded as cowardly several times before though but had yet to understand why. Their tactics didn’t match those of many others sure, but Meera found honour in war to be innately odd, and honestly quite incompatible with one another. Yet Meera felt completely indifferent towards her captors for their loss – naturally, she wasn’t sad on their behalf, but on the other hand, she didn’t get any satisfaction from learning it either. Which was odd, really, as these were the ones who would probably be her death.  
It was then she saw a sharpened, relatively thick stick lying on top of the snow. It was most likely the work of a bored soldier, but it could possibly be her saviour. With more silence than before, she neared the stick. 

“We’ll be doomed if we do nothing! Going north was the only option we had, and I decided we took it! Be glad that you joined me in it.”

“I will when I fuckin’ know I’m safe, which, by the way, I’ve never fuckin’ been.”

“Those fucking Northerners would have annihilated us entirely had we stayed down there.”

“So you decided the frog eaters should have the honour instead.”

“Yes.” Edmund openly confessed, startling the surrounding group of men. “For the rest of us to have a chance of survival. I wasn’t sure if we would anyway, but we now have that possibility!”

“When Sansa Stark, or Bolton, or whosever’s last name she whored herself to, finds out that we’ve got her sister, it’ll be just like Kall said; we’ll be fuckin’ dead before you can even offer the price.”

‘Arya’ Meera thought, realising. ’They think I’m Arya’. Why? It unexplainably increased her worry, to be thought of as a more valuable prisoner than she was. With improved haste, she finally got the stick between her fingers, though it was terribly difficult to gain control over it, much less attempting to use its end to cut open her binds. Unable to see it and only capable of using her fingers to adjust the stick, she closed her eyes to concentrate on what she could feel. Additionally, it allowed for her mind to process what she heard them saying. 

“And you don’t even know if it’s even her. How will you know, eh? All you have is a claim. When the Starks show up to buy her from us, we’ll be gutted.” Tys continued, having calmed slightly down. “As you said, we’re doomed either way. The cold of winter, the cavalry of the North, assassins, whatever – one of ‘em will get us. We’re fucked. All I see is a way to have some fun while we’re waiting.”

“You will not rape her, Tys. None of you bastards will. She’s worth nothing if she’s spoiled by a bunch of dumb lowlifes like you.” Edmund passively commanded. Strangely, the soldiers seemed to somewhat listen. “I don’t care if you won’t go with my plan – I’ll go with it myself then.”

Even though she had found the correct placement for the stick and begun to rub the rope binding her wrists on its pointy end, by the mention of rape, she halted, as did her mind. It was as if she in that very instant could smell the foul stench coming from his mouth, feel his repulsive face mere inches from her own. As she did back then, the feel of helplessness overtook her mind, making her want to scream till her lungs exploded and to rip her arms free from the ropes as if she was a giant. The realisation of her circumstances and the lack of hope for them to improve was followed by fright more than anger. It made her feel dizzy and blurry, angry and frightened.  
One the night after they escaped Craster’s Keep, she had had a nightmare. Confusing and incoherent as dreams are, this one stood clear in her mind. She had dreamt of her rape, had it happened, with Jojen forced to look on, no Jon Snow to rescue them, no Bran to control Hodor. Despite the image lasting not many seconds, they remained within her. Once she awoke from her dream, she was close to throwing up. It was that night she learned to turn to herself for comfort, as she didn’t want to awaken her Prince because of a silly dream she’d had. “I’m safe now” she recalled telling herself. “His dreams are worse.” Some of her wanted that to be true, another part not. As of the moment she was in now, she could only pray it wouldn’t happen. 

“Oh, so now you just wan’ her for yourself, eh?” Tys said, putting on a smug smile. “Well I don’t blame you frankly – we just want a slice too.”

“If I wanted to rape her, I would’ve done that long ago.”

“Why? She hasn’t been awake yet. No point in fucking an unconscious girl, I assure you. But each to their own, Ed…”

“Fuck off with that.”

Tys walked up close to Edmund, standing face to face. “Tell you what. You go find out if that girl is Arya Stark. If she is, we’ll follow up on your plan.” He looked around the camp for approval from the men. “If not, we’ll have our way with her. Sound good?” The latter statement gained him more support than the former. 

Reluctantly, Edmund agreed. As a result, Meera became close to frantic, her mind disconnected from her body. It began to work on its own and rose from the ground. It cared little for subtlety and all for escape. When attempting to run, it was not until the shouting stopped her that she understood what was going on.

“The bitch! Grab her!”

A strong hand clenched around her right shoulder, turning her to face the man. He was an ugly man, scarred and bald. He pulled a knife from his belt and quickly cut open her gag. Immediately breathing heavily with her mouth, she bent over. The man stared at her condescendingly until she was looking back at him. He then leaned closer to her head, placing his other hand on her lower hip, whispering: “Don’t worry sweety, I’ll make sure it won’t last long.”  
This prompted defiance in Meera, making her kick hard on his shin. She instantly regretted though, as the pain in her right foot increased. After staring with hostility towards her for a short moment, the man placed an armoured knee in her stomach, pulling her onto it. Meera let out a loud cry as he did so, losing her breath fast. He hadn’t done it violently enough to cause actual damage, but Meera feared it wouldn’t be like that for long. “I’ve got armour on, dumb bitch.” He stated as he began pulling her to the fire. 

“I told you not to fucking touch her! How is that so difficult to understand?” Edmund angrily said, pushing the man away from Meera, and her onto her knees. 

“How are we gonna know if she’s Arya Stark, eh?” Kall asked. 

“Ask her something only a Stark would know.”

“Amazing. You’re dumber than you look. How the fuck we would know something ‘only’ a Stark would know?”

“Right, well then what do you suggest?”

Kall then turned to Meera, whose stomach was still aching violently. “Are you Arya Stark?”

“And you call me dumb? Of course the girl’s gonna say yes to that you twat.”

“I didn’t ask you a damned thing, Tys.” Kall answered, silencing him. “I was asking the girl.”

Meera’s head was still dizzy and distressed as if it wasn’t able to coherently comprehend the situation she was in. Its reminiscence of the incident at Craster’s was too eerie and too much. It made the already difficult question borderline impossible for her to answer. 

“If you lie, we’ll find out.” Kall threatened, his eyes intense. He obviously waited for an answer, but was patient, either from not wasting the threat or to make it easier for her to give her response. Something told Meera is was the former. “I’ll only repeat it once more. Are. You. Arya. Stark?”

She would have little to defend the lie with, but it was her only way to escape all that she feared. “Y-yes…” she mumbled. 

“What? Repeat.” Kall ordered. 

“Yes.” Once the word had passed her lips, there was no going back. 

“Congratu-fuckin’-lations, Kall. Really thorough work you did there.” Tys answered. 

“Would you start being quiet yet? Stop acting like you’re the smartest fucking person in all of Westeros. ‘Cause you’re not. I’ve got this under control.” He then returned his gaze towards Meera, his voice now close to a whisper, as if only speaking to himself. “Right now; how will we decide if you’re telling the truth? Torture won’t do any good, neither will asking you of Winterfell.  
“Does anyone know something about Arya Stark? What she’s done, who she’s been with, something? Anything at all?”

“Your genius is a right fuckin’ marvel innit?” Tys spat. In response, Kall pulled his sword and had its point close to Tys’ chest before any reaction from the others in the camp was visible. 

“Stop it with your bickering! It’ll get us nowhere whatsoever. How stupid do you both have to be to not realise that?!” Edmund shouted, having his own sword pulled. “Tys, let the man do his work. Kall, sheathe your sword.”

Both of the two men did as commanded. It was in the following silence when Meera noticed that most, if not all, eyes rested on her. Her position was delicate at best – at any moment the worst scenarios could unfold into reality, the thought scaring her to no end. She dared not but to look a few of them in the eyes, finding what she dreaded; lusty gazes, filled with hostility and spite. 

One of the men she’d looked in the eyes, who had not spoken before, now did. “I think we should let her go.”

The man received every bit of attention available. Most were shocked with his opinion, as was Meera. Many began to voice their discontent with the statement, creating a chaotic myriad of arguments, gradually gaining in loudness. It was, however, of no use to Meera; Kall was not as dumb as the rest of them, as he was quick to grab her firmly by her shoulder, making sure she didn’t go anywhere. 

“NOW YOU ALL JUST FUCKING STOP!” 

Edmund had screamed with every bit of air he could muster. The noise from the dozen soldiers was subdued with close to immediate effect. 

“I want you all to shut the fuck up. Let the man say whatever he will, but let’s focus on the matter at hand.”

“I think it’s well about time you shut the fuck up yourself, Ed.” Of the men answered. He unsheathed his sword while approaching Edmund, who reciprocated equally. But when the aggressor reached a distance of about 5 feet from Edmund, the latter threw his sword into the snow. Stunned and confused, the soldiers around watched in anticipation. 

“Do you really want to kill me? Then go ahead and try. I know I won’t kill you.” Edmund called, his words sounding both tempting and warning. “You’d achieve nothing but chaos for this group if you do so. Nothing. You’re desperate, I’m aware, but so am fucking I! I was too when I fought Northerners back home. I led several of you, and back down there, we all knew it we only had one way to survive, and so we took that way. Don’t try and fucking tell me you weren’t in as much despair down there as you are up here. I may seem like a cunt, and I am, at times. But I see it as my task to try and make as many of us as possible survive. Is that the same intention you have, with your sword pointed at me? And I know letting the girl might seem like the most knightly thing to do, but now is not the time to be knightly and chivalrous, but neither is it the time to act like a damned wildling!”

The man swung his sword at Edmund without hesitation. It was obvious that Edmund had foreseen this, quickly dodging the blade. After he’d done so, the intensity between the two combatants was only amplified by the complete lack of sound from anyone or anything. They glared at each other for seconds, when the man swung the sword at Edmund again, attempting to use the length of the sword to his advantage by making a horizontal swing, left to right. This move, too, Edmund had read and was quick to evade, but this time he didn’t step back: instead, he moved in the opposite direction of the swing, instantly placing himself next to his attacker. It was then he kicked him hard on his right popliteal and pushed his torso, causing the man to fall onto the ground. In a smooth following motion, Edmund sat on him, his knee pressed on the man’s upper back and his left hand holding down his head. 

Edmund then slowly raised himself. “Kall, do continue.”

After the humiliated man had left the centre of attention, Kall asked once again. “Does anyone know anything of Arya Stark?”

“Didn’t she leave for Braavos? Or Essos, something like that, eastwards.” One of the men suddenly said. 

“I’ve heard something similar. Heard all kinds of things back in the Riverlands once the Northerners arrived.”

“What did she go there for?”

“Ask her yourself. She’s right there.”

Kall turned to her. “That true? You left for Braavos?” 

It was true, what they’d heard. Upon Arya’s return to Winterfell, it was quickly common knowledge that she’d left for Essos some time after her father’s death. It was not until she had already nodded in haste that Meera realised she could’ve lied again. 

A very tanned man with long, dark bushy hair came forward, slowly, due to his old age. He was a foreigner; that much was clear to Meera. But she didn’t recognise his homeland, though it had to be Dorne or Essos. He was now a few steps from her when he lowered himself to achieve the same eye height. “Then you should be able to answer me this, ‘Arya Stark’: I say Valar Morghulis, and you say what?”

She couldn’t answer. Not only because that she did not know the answer, but the consequences of giving the wrong response were beyond comprehension. Thus, her mind froze as cool as her surroundings. 

“She doesn’t know it.” Kall uttered with a hint of disappointment, but no shock. “She doesn’t know it.”

“I don’t see the fuckin’ problem then. Kall, let’s get to it. Untie those wrists – it won’t help her anyway.” A voice spoke.

“Untie the whore!” another shouted.

Edmund shook his head and walked off away from the men. The loudness of the soldiers began to steadily increase shortly after she had failed to answer, making her body shiver and shake. What awaited her seemed surreal. 

“I’m Meera Reed,” she said in her defence, though her voice was drowned by those of the soldiers. She bumped her head into Kall so that he would notice her. “I’m Meera Reed!”

Kall furrowed his eyebrows at that, but his attention was quickly drawn elsewhere. Cutting through the silent night, the unmistakeable howls of wolves shot into the ears of every one awake. The men stopped shouting, but the howling halted too. It was replaced by one the soldiers falling in a defiant and resisting manner. The man then rose to his feet again, now with a sword in hand. Without warning and with unnatural movement, the man stormed into one or two nearby soldiers, sword first. Immediately one soldier fell to the ground, dead. The others pulled their own swords and spears, quickly surrounding the hostile man. The man continued to swing his sword almost aimlessly at the men around him as if he’d suddenly lost his own fighting capabilities. Meera however, took the opportunity. 

“Kall” she called in a loud whisper. He gave her an intense and frightened look but clearly allowed her to continue. “I’m Meera Reed, of Greywater Watch. My father will make sure you’re paid, and even if he doesn’t have the money himself, Sansa or Bran will pay it for him.”

The man who’d gone crazy was slain by decapitation by an axe from behind. A disgusting sight nonetheless, Meera could’ve imagined worse ways to go – one of which she was in desperation to escape. Edmund had reappeared, shocked and looking too tired to enter another tantrum. 

“The girl claims to be Meera Reed, daughter of Howland,” Kall exclaimed, making sure everyone heard it. “I’ve no reason not to believe her.”

“No reason? No one knows who the fuck they are, she could be making up names for it.”

“She’s not. Meera is the name of Lord Howland’s daughter.” Edmund argued from a distance. He walked closer as he continued. “She’s could be Crannog; short, green eyes, slight build.”

“And then you’re just going to sell to Howland? The man whose army has just murdered more than half of us?”

“Yes.” 

“I can show you the way to Greywater Watch. No other can.” She quickly added. Truth was that she actually couldn’t, not directly anyway. 

“She’ll lead straight us to our deaths! I’ve had enough of bog devils, ain’t going down there again.”

“She’s not to be touched. We sell her.”

Hesitantly, an unconvinced Kall spoke: “Is that your order? We both know we’ll be dead.”

“The Northerners are more honourable than most of us. Yes, that is my order.” Edmund then turned to his men. “We all need the rest we can get. I’ll guard the girl.”

The energy had left the group, halting potential protest. All she had to comfort herself with were Bran’s words, to not be afraid, that it would work itself out. It was a difficult thing to blindly trust, but it was late night, and she needed to rest.


	10. Jaime Interlude III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: This chapter takes shortly after Meera has left Winterfell, many days before she gets captured. Explanation will follow sometime in the story.

Jaime stood before the Heart Tree, pondering. After having heard how much time Brandon spends in the Godswood, by this very tree, in particular, Jaime decided to discover what was so particular about it. He had never given two shits about the Seven or whatever people thought of them, and he assumed the Old Gods of the North were no different to him. Staring at the carved face, his presumption was confirmed.   
Yet still, he kept gazing at the face, just as it gazed back at him, its haunting, bleeding eyes and gaping mouth indefatigably judging him. It had found the truth, the one he was after. Those eyes stood witness to many atrocities throughout history, Jaime believed, the ones he had committed too. 

‘There are things you regret more’

Whatever those things could be, Jaime could not see. Tossing Brandon out of the window was what sparked all the fight between the Lannisters and Starks, an eventual war. Had he not done it, the world would still be standing, the Stark family happy and content as Wardens of the North. It was and would be the greatest misdeed of his life. 

He took a look a down into the small pond before the tree. While the water on the edges was frozen, the vast majority of it was clear as one would imagine it in the summer. It was even giving off damps, indicating the heat. Until he had experienced it himself, Jaime had not believed that Northerners would be able to use hot springs from the earth to heat up their walls. He attributed this way of thinking to Cersei. When Jaime then jokingly addressed the truth of the matter to her, she’d gotten angry.   
He bent down and bit off the glove on his left hand, keeping it between his teeth as he stretched out to touch the water. While he definitely believed that the water was warm, it still gave his body a shock when his fingers realised it indeed was. 

While exiting the Godswood, his walk was disturbed by the constant fear of sighting Brandon being rolled in Jaime’s direction. That boy served as a permanent dread to him, as the slightest word from his mouth could have him killed. But death, or whatever fate awaited him, was far from the actual punishment; that honour belonged to the maddening length he had him wait without even giving hints as to what would happen. It was excruciating, but Jaime believed Bran to be aware of this, just to make him suffer more prior to his inevitable execution. For all his bravado considering his lack of fear of death, it was not true. Not entirely. One thing was not knowing what would happen to himself beyond death, another was not knowing what would happen to Brienne. In his past, he’d say that he only loved fighting and his sister. Both of these had been taken away from him. Upon not having much else to think of in the time since he left King’s Landing, she’d filled most of his everyday thoughts. During wondering about her, even daydreaming like a little boy at times, he’d come to realise that he had never loved her, nor had she loved him. Not truly. Never having loved or been with any other woman than his Cersei, he couldn’t have known. But he had only ever thought himself to love his sister, or at the very least just fucking her. In the end, her beauty was nothing compared to that of Brienne’s. 

The very guards who had initially halted his entrance of the Godswood now frowned upon his exit. They’d asked him of his intentions, and had it been up to them, neither would have allowed him to enter. They’d argue he didn’t belong at Winterfell, least of all the Godswood itself and that he should be lucky to still be alive and not rotting in a cell. He supposed they were right.

While Jaime was used to being hated, even despised, although rarely this openly, it had worsened as of late. When Brienne had last visited him a few days past, she had for once had something half interesting to tell. It would seem that shortly following Meera’s departure to the Neck, Arya Stark had quietly and unnoticed left Winterfell overnight. Along with her, she had taken the blacksmith, Gendry, whom Jaime seemed to recall for some unexplained reason. He’d heard, both from passing servants and Brienne, that the two could often be spotted together – some even suspected, Brienne did so too with regret, that they were more than just friends, but Jaime didn’t blame them one bit. How could he?   
In any case, it would appear the reason behind the sudden flight was due to some unspecified plan coming from the ruling couple of Winterfell – Littlefinger and Sansa. He had begun to dislike Sansa, even though she was proving to be a competent ruler – far better than any of the kings and queen he himself had served. She was preparing for winter, securing food and shelter for everyone she was able to, even beyond Winterfell and its nearby surroundings. But in spite of this, Littlefinger continued to be at her side, advising her on probably nearly every matter. That she did not realise the true nature of the man had Jaime baffle, and he wasn’t in doubt for one second that the slimy man was somehow behind Arya leaving Winterfell. The Stark soldiers had seemingly joined Jaime’s outlook on this, blaming Littlefinger for it as well. 

“You heard that Lady Meera has been taken captive? It seems Lord Stark was informed by the Crannogs.”

“I don’t even know why she left Winterfell in the first place. I heard some saw her crying.”

“Heard that one as well. You believe it?”

Two guards were speaking by the exit of the corridor Jaime was currently walking through. As he overheard their topic, Jaime leaned against the wall and did his best to listen. 

“’course. Don’t you?”

“Yeah yeah, it’s just… I don’t see why.”

“She’s a woman, they’re more prone to cry.”

“I mean, she’d been with Lord Stark for gods know how long. Surely something happened for her to cry.”

“It’s none of our business anyway.”

“It is now.”

“You think they’re gonna send the two of us down to save Lord Stark’s Crannog girlfriend? As if. There are knights runnin’ ‘round this castle and you think they’d trust us with that task?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just… Lord Stark’s worries are our worries, right? I hope Lady Reed is returned. For his sake, at least. Her own too, of course.”

“If it makes him happier.” He held a short pause. “You think he’d rather have her or his sister back?”

“What kind of question is that? I don’t know! How could I?”

“Just a thought, calm it. Don’t put too much into it.”

“I don’t, but I never understand why you ask such stupid questions. It doesn’t matter to us. Those are his own considerations.”

“I think it’s Lady Meera.”

“Shut up.”

“Think about it: he didn’t go all distressed when Lady Arya left Winterfell, as he did with Lady Reed.”

“Why do you care so much for his preferences?”

“I’m just saying that he’s asking to have Lady Meera rescued, not his sister.”

Brienne hadn’t told him that. Surely she would have, had she the opportunity. This had to be recent. Unconsciously, he stepped closer to the guards. 

The same soldier continued: “Hold on. As Lord Brandon wants Lady Reed back, shouldn’t Queen Sansa want her sister back?”

“Don’t you ever quit? It was probably her own decision to do so.”

“I think it’s that fucking slimy cunt who’s behind, he’s always creeping at Quee-“

There was a clear and loud ‘clonk’ when metal was knocked against another hard substance. 

“Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong! Nothing good will come from it whatsoever. Nothing but conflict.”

“You’re always so fucking scared of any disturbance. Sure, I don’t know what’s actually going on, but I’m telling you, Littlefinger had something to do with it. No fucking wonder Vale soldiers are wandering all over the goddamn place all of the time.”

Suddenly the obedient soldier was pushed roughly so that he was now standing right in front of the entrance, visible to Jaime, and he to him. Immediately, the two gained eye contact, making Jaime freeze for a short instant. In a feeble and knowingly futile attempt to appear innocent, something Jaime had never practised nor done before, he started walking forward, as if he was just strolling by casually. The soldier pointed suspiciously at him. 

“What are you doing there, Kingslayer?”

The other soldier stepped forward from the side. “You spyin’ on Stark soldiers yeah?”

Jaime wanted to avoid confrontation. “I didn’t know Lady Meera needed rescue.”

“Doesn’t matter to you, does it? You’ll be dead before long, Kingslayer. Perhaps it was you who made Lady Arya leave Winterfell?”

“And how in all Seven Hells should I have done that?”

“One can’t be too certain with Lannisters. Who isn’t to say you’re cooperating with Littlefinger, to aid your sister?”

It took immense restraint to not shout an angry outburst in response, but he managed. Instead, he firmly began walking forward, heading straight into them. As he expected, they didn’t allow him to pass. One of the two grabbed him determinately. 

“He’ll order you executed soon enough,” he whispered. “I expect the best you can hope for is hanging.”

“You’d be lucky to get that.” The other said, walking up close to him. “I think he’ll make you suffer in front of your girl, what’s her name… Brienne? Yes, Brienne the Beauty. Imagine her face when the life leaves yo-“

“I thank you for your insight.” He smiled sarcastically, taking great care of not showing anger. Some Northerners really were stupid. “May I pass now?”

“I don’t think so. Where are you going?”

He wasn’t quite of that himself. When he realised that Meera had been captured and was in need of rescue, he hadn’t exactly felt grievous. He was sorry that she had been, of course, she did seem loyal and was indeed likeable, but she hadn’t meant anything to him. Not much did any longer. His sister, his brother, children, father, the Kingsguard - all of that was behind him now, left at King’s Landing. Only Brienne did he care for, and luckily, she was also the absolute only person he could trust with anything. Dependable persons were scarce in the capital; something he’d imagined was different up North, the home of the ever honourable Ned Stark. But with Arya’s departure, it had dawned on him that maybe King’s Landing wasn’t the only place filled with people mistrusting each other. He started to question his own idea of Winterfell and the Starks, and the more he did so, the more he came to the realisation that aside from Brienne, Sansa couldn’t count anyone either. She might believe she can, but anyone but her was able to tell Littlefinger did not share her interests. But neither could Lord Stark himself, and with her sister and loyal bodyguard both gone from her home, Sansa’s situation seemed precarious. Though it sounded ridiculous, perhaps Jaime was one of the lucky ones in that aspect. It all was eerily reminiscent of the capital, of all the deception. Such things didn’t belong in the North. But the king of deception seemed firm in his intention to change that. 

“To Queen Sansa.” He decided. He couldn’t tell her the truth of Littlefinger, but he could warn her, tell her that she could do every bit of ruling without him whispering in her ear.

The soldier looked confused. “And what are you going to speak to her about?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“If it isn’t then I wouldn’t know what fucking is.”

“I’m sure she’d love for you to have me forcibly tell everything I have to say to some random soldier supposed to be standing guard. Or am I wrong?” Jaime quickly shot back, silencing him. “Now, if I may pass?”

“Didn’t know you Starks were starting to ally with Lannisters all of a sudden!” a voice behind him shouted, just as the Stark guards were making way for him. Jaime turned to see who had spoken, seeing i was a couple of Vale soldiers approaching them. Now standing just by them, he followed his comment up. “But I suppose we all must do necessary evil from time to time.”

“That’s fucking right yeah, no wonder I hear that from you.”

“Matt, please not now.” The other Stark soldier tried to pull his arm, but Matt broke free from it. The face of the Vale soldier who had spoken revealed something reminiscent of excitement. 

“Only difference is that you’re doing it all the damn time.”

“And by that you mean…?” he answered, clearly just fishing for more.

“You know what. Littlefinger. He’s causing nothing but trouble for Winterfell.”

“We’re just following our, and your, queen’s orders. You’re not any different in that regard.”

“Knock that gobshite off, will ya? Now listen here. Arya Stark didn’t leave for no fucking reason, and I promise you, your little slimy lord had something to do with it.”

“If you’re so confident in your case, I think you should go talk to him right away, see how he takes it.”

“Yeah, I’m not that dumb alright. Maybe you should go tell Queen Sansa what your lord’s doing?”

The Vale soldiers’ expressions suddenly turned from light-hearted to serious at the question. “And what do you suggest we tell her?”

“That’s for you to decide, but maybe you could begin with why Lord Baelish sent away her sister?”

Hands were placed on hilts and handles of swords on both sides as silence dominated the scene, only interrupted by a slightly howling wind. “You don’t honestly believe those rumours, do you? I thought you just said you weren’t dumb.”

“She is your queen, after all. Don’t you think she deserves the truth?”

“What truth is there to tell? We could tell her many things, but none of them would make it clearer why Lady Arya left Winterfell. No, it would make much more sense for you to confront our queen’s advisor with those peasant rumours of yours.”

Before the soldier could answer, Jaime broke in. “Maybe I will.”

All eyes were directed at him, but he had brought that on himself. He instantly regretted having said the words though, but not for his own wellbeing – that was beyond salvation at this point. It was Littlefinger’s implied threat he was worried about, and the person it would affect. 

“What is Queen Sansa of the ‘North’ going to do with the words of her brother’s would-be murderer, eh?”

Jaime slowly stepped closer to him, hoping it came off as somewhat intimidating. Tension was rising on both sides, both parties most likely wanting to pull their swords right here and now. Snow fell into the soldier’s already covered hair, which’s length itself was covering half of his angered face. “I don’t know, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

“Kingslayer!” a voice could be heard calling in the distance. Jaime turned his head to see who it was - “Lord Stark wants to see you.”

The surrounding soldiers were just as confused, and shocked, as Jaime himself was. The most likely of things was that Brandon had finally decided on his punishment. Jaime felt an unsettling jolt of fear and nervousness going through him at the thought. The others made way as he walked towards the messenger who had called for him, but he peripherally managed to hear one of them saying they looked forward to his head on a pike.

 

-

 

The guard in front of Lord Stark’s chambers, which weren’t really the room in which Ned had slept during his reign, so they weren’t ‘The Lord’s Chambers’, was eyeing him with hostile wary. Jaime was just then answering the order he had given, unsheathing his sword and handing it over before entering. The guard didn’t wait as much as a second to rip it aggressively from his hands as soon as he could. At this point, Jaime had stopped cared about such minor hostilities. As a matter of course, Jaime had to open the door himself. 

To be greeted with anything but cold stares and disdainful scoffs was all he expected from beyond the door, or even anywhere else in Winterfell. And although this was true in the case of Sansa, sitting in a ladylike fashion on a chair beside the large bed of Brandon, her icy expression eerily reminiscent to that of his sister’s, it wasn’t the boy he had once crippled who judged him with hateful eyes. The Lord was lying on his bed, torso resting on a bunch of pillows so that he was sitting up, and covered in fur blankets from the waist and down. 

His eyes glistened, reflecting the candlelight clearly enough for Jaime to see it numerous feet away from him. His right hand clenched around the blanket covering him, unsettled and eager in their movement. Until now Brandon had seemed distant and uncaring, even to those supposedly close to him, but seeing his hand tremble slightly and him breathing heavily while wearing an almost nervous face, made Jaime question that notion. It could hardly be called desperation, but the manner the eyes of Brandon switched from his sister to his culprit was unmistakable. His death sentence had come, he was sure. Jaime went on his left knee in front of the two. “You summoned me, my Lord?”

“Stop playing games, Jaime. Rise.” Sansa ordered. He answered without question. “My brother has come to a decision about you.”

Jaime’s heart stopped, his limbs froze. Death had finally caught up with him. He turned to Brandon, whose face wasn’t filled with the expected hate. Despite this, it did not stop Jaime from trembling so much that he was unable to muster anything but a fearing, anticipating face as an answer. Sansa looked at her brother for him to speak. 

His eyes dug straight into Jaime’s. “You’ll be executed for your crimes on the morrow.” 

He had hardly expected anything but that. It was time for him to go, after all. He just hoped that Brienne wouldn’t be too angry with him. Hopefully, she’d be able to live happily as the honourable bodyguard he could never be. “Shall I go to the prison cells myself or will I be lead?”

“You will be lead. There are guards waiting to follow you there.” Bran stated, but not in the plain and cold tone he usually did. He hesitated with the sentences, but Jaime couldn’t be bothered to dwell further on the oddity. Instead, Jaime turned his back on the two Stark siblings remaining at Winterfell without a word.   
It all felt distant, unreal to accept that the end was coming to him so soon. Before he lost his hand, he had not given death as much as a thought, much less confronting himself with the idea. Even in battle death would ever threat him, not even in captivity amongst his enemies. He knew he would survive, he had always done so. The words of his father came to his thoughts: “Your mother’s dead. Before long I’ll be dead. And you. And your brother. And your sister. And all of her children. All of us dead. All of rotting in the ground. It’s the family name that lives on. It’s all that lives on. Not your personal glory, not your honour. But family.”   
He was wrong. The Lannister family wouldn’t live on, it was all dead, and if his brother didn’t make an heir, it would be long forgotten to the history books of others. The truth of the Robert Baratheon’s children would be unveiled at some point, firmly consolidating his family as the villains of history. It almost pleased him, imagining Cersei tossing herself over in her grave because of it. But Father had been wrong in more than that. Personal glory, or the lack of same, did indeed live on. Sure, it mostly served the family name, but songs would be sung of the traitorous sister-fucker Lannister, the Kingslayer.   
The Stark family couldn’t live on. Its members were incapable of carrying on their legacy. Obviously, the two women couldn’t. It would have to be Brandon to do the job, but Jaime himself had made sure that wouldn’t be an option. As if the end of his own house wasn’t enough. Unless Sansa did as his sister and ignored every convention established, House Stark seemed doomed as well. Even though he didn’t believe in either, he prayed to both the Seven and the Old Gods that she wouldn’t. Before opening the door, he returned to face them again.

“I suspect this is the last I’ll ever speak to either of you.”

Bran’s eyes dilated, and he nodded slowly. His teeth were clenched behind his lips, and he was breathing actively through his nose. He pushed himself backwards so that he sat more straight. 

“I hope she’ll be brought back.” He continued, nodding at Brandon. “For your sake, if any’s.”

“Arya can manage her own.” He answered unconvincingly. 

“Arya isn’t the one captive.”

Brandon stiffened at the remark, with Sansa casting him a brief worried look. All three in the room became unsettled, and Jaime quickly regretted having said it. 

“What do you care?” Brandon spurted. 

“As I said. For your own sake, if any’s. She seemed nice.” Jaime attempted to end the conversation with, sensing the rising tension in the room. He turned to the door, but Brandon interrupted him. 

“That does not answer the question.”

“Right, I don’t care. I don’t have anyone to care for any longer. The only one I do can handle herself far better than I’ll ever be capable of again.” He burst out. “Do you really hate me that much? After all these years? That you can’t accept a single supportive remark after you’ve just sentenced me to death? I don’t hate the man who chopped my hand off. Not anymore. And I’d be damned if I were to see the day when Starks hold grudges when Lannisters don’t. That’s not what I saw in your father.  
“You’re right. I don’t care for Meera. But I’ve nothing else to care for but House Stark now – it’s why I gave you my life in the first place. I don’t know her, not you, nor Sansa, but I still pray that she is returned to Winterfell.”

Both of the siblings, Sansa moreso than her brother, looked shocked – he hadn’t realised he had been close to shouting when he spoke. Jaime quickly mumbled an apology. 

“You don’t need to apologise.” Sansa excused him. She looked at Bran, who nodded approvingly, though still shaking. The boy was uncomfortable. “You said your life was ours to do with as we pleased. You promised us your loyalty.”

“I did, and still do.”

“How would you prove that to us?”

Jaime furrowed his brow in confusion. “I’ve just accepted a death sentence.”

“It’s easy to be killed. You don’t have to do much yourself.” Bran harshly said with a tone of disdain.

“What do you want?”

“What would you do to prove your loyalty? How can we benefit from that, the loyalty of the Kingslayer?” Sansa said, provoking him. 

“Whatever it is you require from me.” He answered. None of the two said anything in reply, forcing thought through his mind. He started to study the face of Brandon, the Lord of Winterfell. Despite unable to move his legs, he was clearly unsettled. Something was wrong. Perhaps it was the capture of Meera, the departure of Arya, or the fact that Littlefinger controlled half the garrison of his own home. Plausibly a combination of all three things, but it slowly dawned on Jaime as he narrowed his search. It was quite obvious, in fact. 

“Let me rescue Lady Meera. Let me risk my life for her, for House Stark. I beg of you, give me that much.”

There was a knock on the door. A voice had begun to speak when it was immediately halted by Brandon, saying: “Let him enter.”

Sneaking through the door came Littlefinger, his smug smile on his face and wearing his neat robes. “I hope I do not disturb too much, my Lord, your Grace. I heard that Jaime had been called to your chambers… I see it wasn’t wrong.”

“No, your arrival was as timely as it was uncalled for.” Brandon spoke. 

Littlefinger bowed deeply. “I deeply apologise, my Lord. I shall leave if it is wanted of me.”

“No, stay. You can help.”

“Help, my Lord?” He asked, smiling and taking a seat. “I recall it was your decision what to do with the Kingslayer.”

“We have decided.” Sansa stated, looking him dead in the eye. Littlefinger simply hinted that he expected her to go on. “Bran wants to see his promises proven. Lady Meera means a great deal to my brother.”

“And it pains me ever so much to hear of her capture.” Littlefinger turned his eyes to Bran. “My Lord, say the word, and dozens of Vale knights will give these outcasts what they deserve.”

“Good. I want you to do that.” Bran said. He then nodded in Jaime’s direction. “But he is to come with them.”

Littlefinger evidently chewed on the idea, leaning back into the chair while stroking his beard slightly. “That does sound fitting. When will they depart?”

“On the morrow.”

“I will have my men ready by then.” He rose from the chair and went to the door. His smile was unnervingly satisfactory. It never hinted anything good if Littlefinger seemed pleased about it. But there was no going back now. The decisions were made and it could all just go one way now. Littlefinger bowed and took a leave. 

With silence dominating the room, Jaime had this one chance, just this once, to warn them both about him. He stood and went to kneel before Sansa, looking up at her. He lowered his voice to a whisper as if he feared Littlefinger would hear him through the thick wooden door. 

He searched for words, and to his surprise, neither of them appeared annoyed. What he wanted to say hadn’t really been thought through, and even the simplest of warnings would immediately endanger Brienne – he had not forgotten the threat. “Littlefinger is… Not trustworthy.”

“I already know that, Ser. Everyone knows that.”

“Drop the Ser. I don’t want to be remembered as one.” He firmly proclaimed. “I don’t care if you just know; you have to do something about it too. I don’t know… I can’t say too much. Don’t allow him too much space. It will help no one but himself. I know it’s not worth much from the Kingslayer, but take my word for it. I have no reason to want you harm.”

Brandon studied him, Sansa was suspicious. It was clear that Lord Stark had found his words, or at least something, interesting. “He’s right. Pay heed.”

Jaime rose. “If Littlefinger seems pleased by something, it’s never good.” He then went to the door, only having one person on his mind. 

“Jaime.” Bran said hastily. Jaime looked at him and saw his unsettled face. “Goodbye.”

 

-

 

He had not slept well. In fact, he wasn’t aware if he had even slept at all, as he now stood on the southern wall, embracing his predicament. The morning wind was easy, as was the snow which came along. The North seemed colossally vast, something he’d noticed on his journey to Winterfell. Jaime experienced a quiet solace to be found amongst the endless, grey hills and plains. Now he was venturing into it once again. 

They were both aware he knew she had walked up to his side, but neither spoke for a minute or two. Instead, they glared at the endless depths of the North.

“I’m glad you’re going after her.” She said, breaking the silence. “They’ll appreciate it here.”

“Perhaps Sansa will.” He said and turned, taking a look at Winterfell behind him. “But the rest of this castle won’t.”

“You don’t think Lord Brandon will acknowledge when you bring her back?”

“Not counting on it.”

“He will.” She stated firmly. She stepped closer to him, unsheathing her sword and presenting the hilt to him. Jaime stared confusedly at both her and the sword, before shaking his head, refusing. “Take it.”

“It’s not mine.”

“It is. You need it more than I do.”

“That sword won’t be of any use in the hands – hand - of a dismembered ageing bodyguard. It belongs to you.”

“That’s exactly why you need it! It’s Valyrian steel, it’ll make you safer.”

“What is the name of that sword?”

“Oathkeeper.”

“And what is its oath?”

“To bring Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell, which it has fulfilled.”

“Safely. But Arya isn’t in Winterfell, and I’d hardly say that Sansa is safe.”

“I can keep her safe with any sword – but you don’t know what you’re meeting.”

“I’m not taking the sword. It’s yours. It belongs at Winterfell, where it can do its duty and keep its oath.” He said, pausing. “It has no purpose with a Lannister, an oathbreaker least of all. No, I have other promises to discard, other vows to break now. And that sword will have no part in either.”

Defeated and convinced, she slowly sheathed the sword. “You won’t break your vow. You’ll get her back with you. Promise me that.”

He stared her directly in the eye. “I promise. But only if you do the same.”

Underneath her serious expression, Jaime sensed her smile. He realised that her smile was so enthralling she didn’t even need to show it, in order to be beautiful – for in his mind, she always did.


	11. Chapter VIII

When there were only silent footsteps, soft wind and distant fireplace crackling to be heard, Meera knew it to be the moment. The only light to guide her was the one coming from the opening of the tent, where the thick layer of snow glowed. Aside from that, her current vision was engulfed in darkness. She crunched, stretching her hands and fingers to reach her boot. As they began searching for the stick she’d managed to hide in them, the silence became deafening, the darkness blinding. The cold was ignored as she concentrated intensely. Her finger dug in her right boot, where it had been kept hidden, causing her to slightly limp as they journeyed towards the Neck. She’d been to told to ‘get fucking moving’ at several occasions, but only so half-heartedly. The energy of the group had been dwindling ever since she had been in their captivity, and she suspected it hadn’t just begun there. 

As she continued rubbing its naturally pointy edge at approximately the same location as previously, Meera felt the tight rope beginning to loosen. Every time her hands could move, if only a little, further apart, it felt like a victory. Despite that, there was a long way to safety. It was quite dangerous to attempt escape; were she to be caught, her chances of avoiding rape would diminish scaringly. But risking such a fate would be better than whatever mayhem could possibly ensue were they actually reached her father - Meera figured it would only end in a bloodbath. 

With her hands free, the cloth gagging her soon came off. It did wonders for her breathing ability, something that would be most valued when escaping a camp full of rebels and bandits. Meera crawled to the edge of the opening in her tent, peeking out. There was predominately quiet and they were as far from a full moon as possible - otherwise, it would downright impossible to escape in its light.   
She took several confirming glances in every conceivable direction before she went to a crouching position, ready to go. Even before making the final decision, her heart was racing, her mind numb to everything but the moment. Her hand reached out and pressed against the snow, revealing its loose and less than solid structure. But there was no turning back now, not with the ropes cut open. 

Almost as if jumping off a cliff and into shallow water, Meera stepped out of the tent, turning right immediately. It was the shortest way out of the camp from her position. All she needed was to get a weapon on her way out, and she’d be off. Treading as lightly as she could, she managed to go from one hiding spot to the other, behind a barrel, then a tent, then a wagon. When scouting the area, she noticed a weapon rack across a somewhat large open field, but there was no one around to detect her and it was no good just waiting around. She had to sprint. The prints would be visible, but the band had very few horses and no dogs to hunt her down; she’d travelled these parts more times than she could count, and knew if she could get to the nearby forest, safety would be hers. In complete rush, she ran, crouched, across the open area and behind the rack. Meera took hold on one of the grips belonging to the swords, pulling it out with the best combination of silence, speed and caution she could muster. The metal was violently cold, but the grip itself was leather bound. It was almost too good to be true when it did come free. It was. 

A hand roughly turned her around, another kept her mouth silent, allowing only for a muffled shriek to escape. She immediately lost the sword she’d just taken, but quickly fought for freedom from the man. When it was of no use, he looked to see who it actually was. When she gave up, his hand left her mouth. 

“Why haven’t you killed me?” 

Kall didn’t answer, but his serious face didn’t alter either. His eyes were fixed on her and the rack beside her. “How did you get here?”

“I cut myself free.” She admitted openly - she saw no point in lying. 

“Impressive. Put the weapon back.”

Meera warily complied, not losing him from her sight. The ecstasy she’d felt rush through her was beginning to fade at the realisation of her defeat. When Kall didn’t do a thing once the sword was back in its place made her wonder. “Why haven’t you killed me?”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then… why haven’t you raped me?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Thank you.” 

Even though she replied somewhat sarcastically, it seemed to take Kall by surprise, being thanked. Perhaps it was uncommon to do so amongst bandits, where survival was all that mattered. But Kall was in too strong armour to be a simple bandit, his demeanour too calculating. “Where did you intend to go?”

The answer wasn’t one Meera could have given herself, much less someone asking. She’d just supposed anything other than the camp would be an improvement, be it Greywater or Winterfell. “To Winterfell.” She answered, even though she hadn’t convinced herself that it was the truth. 

“That’s an awful long way to go, when almost at the Neck.”

“I can manage easily enough.”

“I’m sure you can, Crannog.” 

The slightly demeaning name didn’t come across as such - if anything, it simply felt more assuring. But her fate relied on Kall’s next decision. The only problem was that Kall didn’t seem like one who knew what that decision would be. Meera took a small step backwards, testing him. He only looked on as she did, but didn’t interfere with it. She took another. He didn’t act. On her third step, she found the urge to secure herself. “Will you tell them?”

Kall simply shook his head slightly, accepting it. 

It didn’t last long, though. Escalating shouting could be heard in the distance, swords being unsheathed and soon enough, clashing swords. Kall questioningly turned his head back to Meera. “You know who it is?”

“No.” 

“Then hide. Flee.”

Meera pulled a sword from the rack again but didn’t care for subtlety this time. In an instant, she turned and ran from the battle, towards the nearby forest. It hadn’t struck her to think whom the attackers were, but it didn’t matter - escaping did. Kall had already unsheathed his sword and gone towards the fighting. 

The weight of her body quickly began to slow her down, running through the thickly layered snow. It became increasingly cumbersome and tiring to continue, but it was no use getting tired. With the violent screams and fast-paced horse trotting and a few burning tents making the background, she had little choice. 

A firm hand pulled her right leg, sweeping her feet away and making her face fall flat into the snow. She kicked aggressively with her feet, achieving free movement from the man’s grip. Meera hastily got to her feet, sword in hand, cold oddly both heightening and weakening her senses.

Edmund swung his sword at hers, evidently aiming for it rather than her body. Meera just managed to hold onto it but did not have the strength or the time to strike back. Instead, she placed it close to herself, hoping he wouldn’t dare to strike her with the sword. 

He pressed his sword against hers with one hand, wrestling her sword away with his other. She pushed her foot against his armour in an attempt to win time, which she did, but not enough. Soon she stood unarmed before an Edmund, who wasn’t. 

Battle fury was racing through him, producing the visible anger on his face. Meera was convinced that was what made him shout. “When did you call for them?!”

“I didn’t!”

“Liar! Such a force can’t just fucking suddenly be up our arses.”

“I don’t even know who’s attacking us! Why would I lie now anyway? And at what point could I have sent message for help?”

One of the cavalrymen had strayed from the camp, riding a short distance off. 

“Tell me; did you flee before or after the attack began?”

“What does that matter?”

The knight rode in a turn, now heading towards her. It was riding dangerously fast, and the rider had a spear on his left side. 

Edmund was conflicted. She could tell he hated her with passion, but perhaps it wasn’t personal hate. She remembered he had been the one preventing her mass rape, but that had only been for his own interest; an interest which, with the slaughter of his band, hadn’t much potential any longer. Still, he would have gotten her to her father, and perhaps he could have benefitted from it himself. As moments went by quickly, and he waved her off with a frustrated hand, she ultimately decided not to warn him. 

The power behind the spear threw him to the ground, landing on his shoulders. It broke on impact, but the front half was now situated in his chest, completely penetrating both armour and flesh. Meera stepped closer to him. His eyes were scared, desperately looking at hers for help. The snow around turned black, as the red wasn’t visible this time at night. He grabbed the spear, coughing up more and more blood until the lower half of his face was completely covered. As the horsed knight had turned around and rode towards her, his coughing stopped, his body and mind having found rest. Just before the now dismounted knight was by her side, Meera crouched to close his eyes. 

“Did you know him?”

She knew the voice, but the dark, his beard and hair cooperated in making his face unrecognisable. “Jaime?”

He nodded.

Something clicked in Meera’s head as if she suddenly understood it all. She was quite aware she didn’t, but it wasn’t a coincidence that Jaime came as her knight in shining armour. There wasn’t anything shiny about neither him nor anything else in this situation, though. Bran had sent him and these men, but she couldn’t fathom why she was here in the first place. 

“No, I didn’t know him. Not much, anyway.”

“I suspected as much.”

As they rode back, dawn was slowly burning on the eastern horizon, the fighting gradually disappearing. The two didn’t talk to each other on the way back, both trying to absorb the absurd, avoidable situation they found themselves in.   
All sound of clashing steel had gone but from one location. Jaime told her to dismount, an action which he followed. They steadily began heading the source of the remaining fighting. 

“Did they… Hurt you?”

Meera understood the implication, but was annoyed at it. “They didn’t ‘spoil’ me, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t care if you’re ‘spoilt’. It’s not what I asked.”

“Well no, they didn’t harm me,” she said apologetically.

“I’m glad.” He assuredly replied. 

“… Who sent you?”

Jaime looked at her, amusedly confused. “Lord Stark did. Who else?”

Meera didn’t have an answer for that. 

They turned around the corner of a burning tent, revealing the last man who’d managed to keep his life so far into the battle. Several other knights and horses laid dead around him, and another fell to the ground. Meera searched the face of the survivor, only to realise it was Kall. 

¬Jaime stepped closer to Kall, who was surrounded by armoured knights. The man still held his sword, ready to continue the fight.

Jaime sheathed his sword in a relaxed manner. “Just give up; it’s over.”

Kall lowered his sword, looking somewhat surprised as he focused on Jaime. “Of all people, I see myself defeated at the hands of Jaime Lannister. The gods truly are cruel.”

“There are many worse men to face in one’s last hour. I assure you as much.”

Kall gave an annoyed, almost condescending look. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“I apologise if I should.”

“I always knew you were high up your own arse, but never this much.”

Jaime slowly shrugged his shoulders. “When did we meet?”

“At the Whispering Woods. You were losing the battle.”

“I did lose it, if I recall correctly.”

“But before you did, you attempted to assassinate the king.”

“And you were a friend of him, I presume?”

“No,” he scoffed. “I only ever spoke with him once. Still I supported him, fought for his cause; it’s called loyalty, Lannister. But I suppose you wouldn’t know of that, Kingslayer.”

“I did what I thought would benefit my party in the war the most, my situation considered.”

“Still defending it to this day, huh.” He said. “Some say you’d changed Kingslayer; that the death of your bastards drove you from King’s Landing. I didn’t believe it one bit, and I see that I was right.”

Jaime sighed. “I- I’m sorry for whatever harm I may have caused you. Can I repay it?”

“No.”

“Who are you?”

“I was one of the men who defended King Robb when you attacked him.” Kall admitted.

Meera knew nothing of what they were even talking about, other than it must’ve been during Robb’s rebellion. It reminded Meera of how little she’d been aware of the events of Westeros, how little she knew of her captors.

“You fought well, very well. Killed numerous lords and guards on your way to King Robb. My companions and I had feared facing you, but the gods have an odd way of showing their affections. And when you came against us, we stood tall - out of loyalty, out of belief in our cause. We did our best to hold you back, but you cut my friends down like butter. You got near King Robb’s guard, killed several of them too. I was scared, but I let the anger take me. It fuelled my sword and it made it win. You ended up disarmed, with my sword at your throat. Do you know what it took for me not to push it through? It would have been so easy; I would’ve been hailed as the one who killed the Kingslayer, my deed to live on through songs. But when King Robb told me to halt, I did. And when I looked back at you, you were thinking the same as I; only, you smiled at it.”

Silence stood uncontested after Kall’s speech. Meera tried to study Jaime’s unreadable face. The knights were all visibly less on guard in comparison to before the speech. Kall’s eyed were primarily directed at Jaime, but they did place themselves on Meera at times. She didn’t like it one bit, beginning to regret her actions. It was impossible for her not to sympathise with him, especially after he let her go. Now he was facing death at the hands of the man who’d killed his friends. She wanted to leave. Now.

“But alas, you win after all, Jaime. When you Lannisters repay your debts you always seem to forget the debts of others.” He uttered in surrender and defeat, angrily tossing his sword to the ground.

Jaime entered the circle of knights which had been created, standing just before Kall. Jaime lifted his arms, creating a cross. Oddly, none of the knights did anything to halt this, not even closing in on Kall. Second after second passed, until Jaime, unopposed, unsheathed his sword. “Last words?”

“Why do you offer me this? Have you ever offered that to anyone who wasn’t of noble birth?”

“No, you’re the first one. Does that make a difference?”

“You win, Lannister. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Jaime hesitantly raised his sword, taking a step back to create space for a fatal blow. He sighed; “No. I haven’t won yet.” The sword was swung, cutting deeply across the face of Kall. He fell to the ground, instantly dead.

 

-

 

The rabbit had been a hard catch. A hard find, to be more precise. The snow was decreasing vision and making it much harder to aim the bow. It was also her fourth arrow which finally pierced the animal, when she’d usually hit her target the first time. Now she sat by the campfire, skinning it.  
When she’d suggested hunting some food for herself, they had all been reluctant to let her. She suspected they thought she’d attempt to escape for some reason, but Meera had no incentive to do so. Still, it took Jaime’s word to ‘allow’ her. There was no real need for her to hunt; they had brought all necessary supplies. No wonder, as the men belonged to Littlefinger, who’d hardly want to lose soldiers. But Meera had wanted some solace from all the warring men. She’d already tired of those types when amongst the rebels, and even though these knights did indeed differ, they were still fundamentally alike. No, war wasn’t to her liking. At least not the company it brought.

This camp was far quieter than the other. The knights were talking quietly together, careful not to be disturbingly loud. They broke bread and shared the wine flasks peacefully; even the ride northwards had gone without much hassle. There reigned a relaxed, relieved air around the camp. Of course, Meera was clever enough to identify this as the cause of her circumstances – here she wasn’t bound or gagged, and not in perpetual fear of waking up to face rape. But despite this realisation, it didn’t harm the sense of relief.

Jaime and she were sitting somewhat by themselves, at the end of the camp. Amongst these, they were the outsiders. But that was also about the extent of their immediate similarities. They hadn’t spoken anything since she returned with the rabbit, apart from a positive remark when she began skinning the catch.

When it was fully skinned and placed over their fire, Jaime interrupted the silence. “That man… I didn’t even ever get his name.”

“Which of them?” She asked nonchalantly.

“The one whose friends I killed.”

‘You’ve done that to all of them’ Meera thought, but felt no need to say it. She knew who he meant. “Kall.”

“What did you know of him? I saw him casting you looks several times.”

“I know as much about him as you do,” she said, holding back from telling his last action to her. She was still pondering it, why he would have done it. Apparently, Jaime sensed it.

“It’s alright if you don’t want to tell it.”

Meera stared into the flames, as did Jaime. “Just before you attacked, I was escaping. Kall caught me doing it, but decided to let me go. I’m not sure why.”

“He had honour.”

The manner in which he said the words made Meera turn her head towards his immediately. It sounded almost like a confession and as if he regretted them. He didn’t look back at her, continuing to stare at the flames. He dried his eyes with haste, but the act itself was revelatory.

“Why did you leave Winterfell?” he asked.

It had been some time since Meera had thought about it. There was no simple answer and she had deliberately avoided thinking of it. Her goal, until she was captured, was simply to return to the Greywater. But somehow, that had subtly changed to going back to Winterfell – Meera wasn’t even sure what she was going to do upon return.

“I was frustrated.” She admitted. “Still am. So I made an escape.”

“I see. You’ve been wanting to return home, see your father.”

“Y-yes.” She unconvincingly said, realising she felt uncomfortable with the actual reasons.

“Will you go back to Greywater then?”

He had read her. “Perhaps,” she mumbled.

“I don’t want to go back to Casterly Rock myself. There’s nothing for me there. It’s where I grew up, it’s what I would call home, were I asked… But it’s not. Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Too many memories.” He said. “Good ones, too, but too many with Cersei.”

“Then what is your home?”

“I don’t believe I have one. Homes are a thing of the past for me.” He stated and paused a little. “When were you last home?”

“I don’t know.” She quickly answered, almost embarrassed. It was an honest answer, she had lost count a long time ago. “It’s been years since I left the Greywater.”

“Home is a strange thing. My sister would say her home is in King’s Landing, Daenerys, I’ve heard, calls Westeros her home, even though she’s never been here and I would say I have none.”

“It just comes… Naturally, home. Maybe home changes.”

“Maybe it does,” Jaime chuckled very lightly. “Would you say you were ‘going home’, right now?”

“Winterfell does a have certain appeal, I’ll give it that much. Not so homely with Littlefinger around, though.”

“The man had, probably still, always wanted to be with Lady Catelyn. Now he takes her daughter because she reminds him of her.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Indeed. But you don’t always choose who you love.”

That sentence awoke something unsettled within Meera. It sprung forward, through everything that wanted to repel and suppress it. It had rested a long time, but it came forth now. She decided to fight it.

“You think he loves her?”

“Why not? She’s young, beautiful, she reminds him of the love he couldn’t have. Should that stop him? Maybe it ought to, but that’s not to say that it does.”

“He’s using her to get what he wants.”

“What does he want? Power and money? Sure. I think he wants so too. But he wants Queen Sansa at his side achieving it. He came from next to nothing, craving a new home. But what home would that be without her? Maybe he hasn’t realised yet, but it wouldn’t be much. It wouldn’t be a home at all.”

It took Meera a minute to figure that he had probably begun talking about someone other than Littlefinger. Meera wanted a home too. “Who do love, Jaime?”

“My brother.” He instantly said. Meera wanted a different answer, however, and Jaime knew it.

“You can say it.” She jokingly said. “I won’t tell.”

He smiled back at her. “She’s all the home I have left.”

The feeling continued to gain strength. The barriers blocking its way were trembling. His answer put a smile on her lips, but it quickly disappeared as her nose smelt burnt meat. The rabbit now had several black spots and Meera hastily took it away from the flame, blowing on the overly hot spots. It was too hot to take off the stick, so she laid it on the snow, which quickly began to melt.

“Why did you spend so much time with Lord Stark anyway?”

“I’m loyal to House Stark. My brother told us that we had to go to Winterfell and find Bran, protect him on his journey.”

“Your brother told you this? Who’s he?”

“He i – was, a greenseer. He had visions.”

“Was?” Jaime cautiously asked.

“He died beyond the wall.” Which was partly the truth. The entire truth was hard to get past the lips.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s been years since it happened.” Meera said, brushing it off the conversation as well as her mind. ”But he firmly believed in the mission to protect and live for Bran. My father was immensely loyal to Ned Stark, and it is only fitting that I should carry on that loyalty.”

She had already guessed what he would answer. 

“And yet you left him.”

“He had left me.”

“In what way?”

“He just seems so… Indifferent, so uncaring. After everything that had happened, all that I’ve done for him, the things I’ve endured, just to be repaid in cold commands and unaffectionate glares - that made me leave.” She declared, frustrated and sad at her supposed fate. 

“I think I know what it feels like, feeling so… unappreciated. It was all I felt up until now.”

“When did you stop feeling that?”

“When I was sent out to bring you back to Winterfell.”

Meera was a bit taken back, but the exhaustion halted her wonder. “Brienne didn’t make you feel appreciated? All I ever see is the two of you together.”

“Not the same type. She appreciates my person, but I need to have my actions acknowledged – most of all from myself.”

The truth in his words was undeniable. It was plain that he spoke from his heart, leaving very little unsaid. She saw no reason for him to lie, not now in the cold wilderness of the North in the middle of a dawning winter, not to her, a girl whose life he’s just saved yet ultimately has few associations with. 

She broke off a piece of the rabbit and handed it to Jaime, who gladly took it. Meera took off a leg and began eating herself, but the taste wasn’t really as great as she’d hoped. The burned spots took their toll, and the amount of rabbit she’d eaten throughout all her years of travel had made the taste of the animal rather dull.   
The knights were getting unsettled. Their voices were raised slightly, but enough for it to be noticeable. Some had risen from their seats, others were simply visibly uncomfortable. Meera turned to Jaime to see if he’d noticed the same, which he had. He kept his eyes on guard, though without the suspicious glare. 

One of the knights approached them, waving the two outsiders to him. “Come on, you two! Why you sitting over there all gloomy and by yourself? Come get a drink!”

The relaxed sensation began to dim. Meera looked at Jaime for assistance, but he seemed to be in as much confusion as her.

“Let them be if they want to. They’re the lord and lady here, are they not?” Another knight said in response. All the other knights looked at him when he spoke, most with a surprised expression. The knight who spoke was younger than most of the others, clean-shaven and had a two-handed greatsword resting by his seat. “It’s no place for a lady to be drinking amongst knights, anyway.”

The knight who’d requested them to join their drinking walked back to his companions, slowly. 

After a few awkward minutes, Meera spoke. “Are they loyal to Littlefinger, do you think?”

“No one but Littlefinger himself is, so no,” Jaime explained. “But…”

“You proclaimed loyalty to House Stark, Queen Sansa, Winterfell, the whole North even.” Meera broke in, inquiring. She still had a question which needed answer, and she wasn’t about to let the interruption hinder her from receiving it. “Will you continue to be that? You have already done one thing for them now, saving me.”

“I’ve already broken one too many vows and promises. Who would I be to break another?”

She accepted that answer. Meera wasn’t certain concerning what reply she was looking for, but the question wasn’t meant as an accusatory one. 

“But I think the real question here, Meera.” Jaime continued, already starting to smile. “Will you continue to be loyal, too?”

Meera slowly nodded. The odd thing was, she had, in practicality, little incentive to return to Winterfell and support Bran once more. But that inner, deep feeling made her want to, still, even after all that had happened. “I hope to be.” 

“Loyalty is a strange thing, I’ll give you that much. Sometimes I can hardly believe there isn’t something else involved, too.” Jaime smirked. Meera furrowed her brow at the remark, knowing what he was hinting at, but couldn’t believe it coming from Jaime Lannister. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

 

-

 

The burnt wood falling down and cracking made her slightly conscious. Everything felt dizzy and she could hardly get up. Even when she did, the entire camp was empty and only one fireplace was lit. 

By it sat Bran. He stared into the flames, just as Jaime and she had done. The words came – not just any few set of words, but a very special one.

“I’m sorry.” 

Even though they weren’t said in person, not in actual face-to-face, the words struck Meera like lightning. It was all she had wanted to hear. 

“He should’ve been dead by now. I saw him die saving you, it was the entire reason you’re here!” Bran almost shouted, turning his eyes from the fire and to Meera. They were shiny, watering up. “I’m sorry I hadn’t seen it… But by the time they were off, I couldn’t stop. I saw you become safe, but now I don’t know.”

He began sobbing. Meera understood nothing of what he said, but seeing him beginning to cry was too much, even for Meera’s hardened soul. She hurried to his side and embraced him. He was far taller than she was, and his torso had to be bowed down extensively for him to be in her arms. It felt right. It felt like when they were still south of the Wall before they ventured beyond it, like Bran was still just a boy and her, his guardian. They sat like that for a few minutes, and while that may have been seen as overly long for some, neither of them felt that way about it. Meera knew he didn’t. 

Bran pulled himself away from her. “Meera, I don’t know what’s going to happen. My visions failed me and all I’ve done is endanger you.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “You’ll be attacked, Meera. I’ve sent for help from your father, they’ll be here soon. I know you can fight. Please, Meera, for me, survive.”

Jaime was aggressively shaking her awake. He looked distressed, almost scared. She took his hand to gain her footing, brushing off the worst snow from her fur. 

“Take your weapons. We leave now.” He stated firmly. Without questioning one thing, Meera picked up her nearby bow, arrows and sword, trailing after Jaime. Their sneaky attempt at escape lasted very shortly, though. 

“They’re fleeing!” 

Fear gripped Meera like a disease. Cold and sleepiness were thrown away to make place for eyes and ears. Jaime and she began to run towards where the horses were located, as they heard a myriad of swords being unsheathed. Men were shouting and snow was being swept off to the side by horses riding through it. Already they were being caught up with.

While running, she picked an arrow from her quiver, placed it on the string. She was forced to stop and turn to shoot, and she realised there would be little point in taking time to aim. The arrow flew towards the men and disappeared from her eyesight. Meera could only wish that it hit someone.   
Even though she repeated it once more, it was in vain. She tossed the bow aside and pulled the sword from her belt, still headed towards the horses. But Jaime quickly turned around, ready to face whatever would come their way. Meera joined his efforts, taking place right next to him.

He immediately shoved her. “GO!”

Her instincts told her to do as she was told, to flee and save her life. Another part of her said she should fight by his side, accepting this to be her fate. The latter voice, however, was not a real option to her. The noble aspect of her said it would be the right course of action, but she knew deep down that this wasn’t about her. 

Knights began to scream in pain and fall over, dozens of arrows being shot from both sides. There were men coming out from amongst the trees, armed and ready to fight. ‘Father’ Meera thought, somewhat happily. The happy thought of reunion didn’t last long though, as Jaime began to almost drag her with him.   
Conflicted, she wasn’t sure whether or not to run with him. Her father was so close, so near after all these years. But there were still Vale knights chasing them and they didn’t appear to have much else in mind but murder.

Two knights had caught up with them, and more were on the way behind them. They hacked at both Jaime and her, Meera successfully parried, but the knight was armoured and she, unfortunately, knew very little about getting around that obstacle. There was little she could do but hold him off as chaos erupted.

Jaime had slain the first he faced, as well as the one Meera fought. He fought with ferocity and anger, what must’ve been a true dread to the Vale knights. However, it began to look bleak. At least six other knights had closed in on them, and Jaime wouldn’t be able to defeat them all.   
She didn’t notice the mounted knight before he charged the men. With haste, it turned around and directed itself to Meera. It was the young, clean-shaven knight who sat upon the horse. He offered his hand to assist her ascension, which she took. Jaime looked at her. She felt a large lump in her throat build up as the knight began to ride away, heading north. Meera swore that she saw Jaime nod before returning to the fight. 

She then realised that Jaime had finally won.


	12. Chapter IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just lazy scum, don't worry about it.

The last thing she’d seen him do, the nod, stuck with her. It had been a few days now, but it was still as clear as if she was experiencing it in the present. It had felt… Healthy, in a way, but the more she thought about it, the more contagious it got. It kept reminding her of the utmost precarious position Jaime had been in when he gave it, the violent end to his life. Living in the North, and daughter to the friend of one of his most bitter rivals had given her depraved stories aplenty about Jaime. And their effect had had their influence on her, making her dislike, even disdain, him without ever having encountered the man. But however much those stories and anecdotes had been rooted in truth, little of them could be recognised in the knight she’d seen. In the brief window they had known each other, and in the even shorter one in which they had been together, she couldn’t find a justifiable reason for his death. 

“We’ll be there soon enough, my lady,” Darrik said, breaking Meera’s stream of thought. “We should be able to see the castle within long”. Their rushed escape had made it impossible to saddle a second horse, forcing Meera to sit very awkwardly behind the Vale knight on his horse. But it was the only resort to return to Winterfell as fast as possible. Though they had not seen the other Vale knights in the days which had passed since their flight, they neither couldn’t feel safe until Winterfell was reached. 

“Don’t bother yourself with it. I’ve been through much, much worse.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my lady.”

“Don’t be” she replied.

It would seem that he was right. It didn’t take much longer than an hour before Winterfell stood noticeably in the distance, somewhat hidden by the falling snow. Even when miles away on the horizon, the sheer size of the castle dominated the landscape.

Darrik halted the horse when they rode past a large pine tree placed on a downward hill, the ground underneath not completely covered in snow. He dismounted and went to the tree, scouted the route to Winterfell – an odd action, considering there was only snow and the cold ground between them and Winterfell. When she had dismounted too, mostly in confusion, he turned to her with an equally stern face. 

“I apologise for the sudden halt, my lady. But there is something that I am obliged to tell you.”

Slightly annoyed, Meera answered. “Naturally… But why did we have to stop for this?” She had been at least one and a half moon away from Winterfell and didn’t feel like stopping so close to it.

“You deserve the truth. When we go through the gates, you have to tell Lord Stark or Queen Sansa when you can. Littlefinger won’t allow me to.” 

Meera realised how little they’d spoken to each other. Other than his name and his birthplace, she knew nothing of him, and him nothing of her. The tranquillity of soon-to-come safety and the numbing feeling of recent events was enough for her mind.  
Darrik couldn’t know of course, that Bran already knew everything that had happened, but it was rude and would be excruciating to attempt explaining that to him. 

“He ordered us to kill you both, after the rebels had been killed. I guess you were both an inconvenience to him, however, Jaime remained the top priority. I suppose he succeeded in that.” He scoffed sadly and despairingly. 

“You haven’t killed me.”

“I haven’t. I couldn’t. He gave us some coins and told us to disband after the deed was done… And I had accepted, at first. But with each night we slept, the more inclined I felt to abandon the cause. I’m not sure why, though… It just began to feel wrong. Tell me I’m crazy, but I felt watched all the time. I noticed that a raven had followed us. It would appear every day and fly alongside us. I know it does sound like complete lunacy, and I don’t even know why I’m telling you it at all. But something tells me I should. Do I make any sense?”

He wouldn’t have done to anyone but Meera, but she knew ‘he’ wouldn’t ever have said this to anyone but her. “Yes, you do.” Nothing of his explanation surprised Meera. It made perfect sense for Littlefinger to have Jaime and her killed, and it was quite the clever plan to have it done. He couldn’t have known the flaw, but really, no one would have been able to.   
With confident and reassured movement, Darrik got back on the horse, aiding Meera with his hand. “He’ll get what’s coming to him, my lady.”

The closer they got to the homely walls of Winterfell, the more the contradictory feelings flourished within her. Heat was rising to her head, her heart starting to pound alongside. There rested a certain amount of safety over Winterfell, but however strong that feeling, pure dread undermined the sense of safety, which was, in fact, nothing but an illusion. But sometimes you need illusions to feel good.   
Meera wondered where he awaited her and how long he’d done so. How restless he was about it, if his visit to her dream was true to the version of him which couldn’t walk. Did he fear their meeting the same way as she? Some part of her wanted him to.   
Of course, Littlefinger wouldn’t be expecting her or Darrik. Him, his mere presence, was what undermined the safety of walls. Walls were built to keep out strangers and enemies, but what good were they if such people could sneak past them, even control when its gates were to be opened? Though more of her father than mother had passed on in her, the strategy of warfare would remain a clouded subject to her, but even she was capable of telling when a castle was under siege – one way or the other. 

The gates were ordered open. Though fatigued and freezing, Meera sensed every inch the gate went up. For what it was worth, she was all too aware that there was little rest waiting behind that gate.   
The horse trotted slowly through. The hurried rustle of amour could be heard here and there, along with every commoner eying them. Guards, both Vale and Stark, began approaching them. 

“My lady –“  
“We didn’t think –“  
“Tell Lord Stark!”  
“Darrik!”  
“Where’re the others?”  
“Where’s the Kingslayer?”

The voices instantly became a mishmash in her head, requesting and asking and exclaiming, nothing of which she could muster an answer. She had little care for them, too. Her focus was regained, however, as she saw Littlefinger enter the courtyard through a gateway. Darrik turned his head over his shoulder, slightly leaning back. 

“Lady Meera, I must request that you dismount. Now.”

Recognising the seriousness of the ‘request’, she did so immediately. In the same brief moment, Darrik kicked the horse’s side and unsheathed his sword. It quickly gained momentum, scattering servants and guards to the sides alike.  
The men began shouting as they realised where Darrik was headed, some took to arming themselves. But it was far too late for them to do much, as Darrik, his sword raised and ready to strike, was closing in on Littlefinger far faster than a man could. He started to shout too, a war cry, but Baelish didn’t seem worried. 

A loud and clear thump was heard and Darrik’s arm fell to his side, the sword from his hand and soon after, himself from the horse. ‘Stupid, stupid man!’ Meera thought. Had he told her of this plan, maybe they could’ve made it work. Instead, that innately impractical honour got in the way, as if Meera was unable to commit violence. She hated Darrik in that brief moment, but no more than she detested the man now approaching her.

Though it had always had some ambiguity to it, the falseness of his worried expression was clear as snow. She consciously took a step backwards as he came to her.

“My lady,” he said, expressing relief. “By the gods, it’s good to see you well and safe. You won’t believe how worried Lord Stark and Queen Sansa have been of your unfortunate circumstances.”

“Why didn’t you order your men to halt Darrik?” she spat. Their eyes were locked. 

“I was meaning to ask you, though I am highly relieved to see you behind safe walls once again… Where are all the others? Did they send you to go ahead of them?”

They both knew. He knew she was the only one left to tell, and she knew he could have none of such sort. “Why do you ask?”

Littlefinger smiled at that. “You must be exhausted, my lady. It’s only understandable that you feel unable to speak of the events.”

“I’d be happy to speak with Bran and Sansa about it.”

“I assure you, there’ll be plenty of time for that. As for now, I’d like to know what happened to the soldiers fighting in my name. We can talk somewhere else, if it does please you.” He stepped up beside her, smoothly began placing a hand on her back, most likely to lead her somewhere. Meera responded quickly by pushing him angrily and firmly off her. Littlefinger had already opened his mouth to continue speaking, he was beaten to it. 

“Meera!” the beautiful Queen of the North happily said, scurrying to them. While she was smiling a genuine smile, the knight who had followed her stood still in the background. Sansa embraced Meera in a heartfelt hug, which did more for Meera’s feelings than she anticipated. It was warm and forgiving, reminding the Crannog girl that she was unable to recall the last time she’d had one like it.   
Sansa, having pushed Baelish to the side, held Meera by the shoulders. “Your room hasn’t been altered, Meera. It’s as you left it.”

“Did you expect me to return?”

“Bran ordered me not to.” She said, smiling knowingly. “I believe he is waiting for you.”

Of course he was. In a way, she had been waiting for him too. She pulled Sansa closer, whispering. “I have to –“

“Your Grace, we have urgent business to attend. There are things you need to know.” Littlefinger broke in. 

Meera opted that it wouldn’t hurt to let go of Sansa. She could seek her out at any moment, and frankly, another meeting felt more pressing. Sansa was confused, but Meera gave her an, hopefully, approving nod, holding eye contact long enough for the Queen to understand. Lady Stark nodded back and turned to speak with Littlefinger. 

On her way to Bran’s chambers and wrapped up in her own thoughts, Meera realised she might have overheard a voice calling for her. Instead, a hand reached her shoulder and turned her. It was firm, though without being forceful. Meera turned to see the giant of a woman, Brienne, trembling. Her pretty blue eyes were glistening and her jaw seemed to be shaking. One couldn’t help but feel pity and sad at the sight of such a staunch woman falling to this state. 

“What’s the matter, Brienne?” Meera asked, unable to think of anything better. As Brienne opened her mouth but spoke no words, Meera ashamedly realised. Her mind went into a halt, completely incapable of telling her. 

Brienne visibly gulped, gathering herself. “My lady, where is he? Jaime?”

The hard, hurtful knot built up in her throat. She dared not think what Brienne felt when Meera simply shook her head slightly, confirming what was the worst fear of the woman before her.   
The last glimpse of hope left Brienne’s face. Her knees began to shake and began looking at the sky. Meera instinctively went to hug the tall woman, whose bravery and strength disappeared at this very moment. But Meera didn’t blame her; she knew loss herself. And if you’re not allowed to retreat into one’s weak and fragile side when faced with such immense loss, then, when are you really?

 

 

Meera didn’t waste time knocking. She entered hastily, seeing him sit in that wheeled chair of his, next to the bed. He fumbled with some letter before looking her in the eyes. 

“… Can you forgive me?”

First reactions are the most natural, her mother had told her. It was a faultless phrase, in and of itself. But first reactions weren’t everything.   
She slowly approached him, having no answer to give. Meera deliberately avoided looking back at him, placing herself on the bed just beside him. It took courage to restrain from acting. 

“I know it won’t make up for it.” He placed the letter on the small round table on his other side. And while looking down at the floor, Meera peripherally noticed his hand cautiously making its way to her. She didn’t know whether to caress or bash it. “I don’t know what else to do, or say… But I’m sorry. For everything.   
“And I don’t expect you to understand. There is little reason for you to sympathise with me. You shouldn’t.”

The hand landed on her thigh, stiffly. Perhaps he had expected her to remove it. It didn’t do anything, not touching or caressing in any certain way – it was just placed there. Meera hadn’t the heart to do much about it.

“Wh- why was I ever down there? What good did it make?”

He retreated his hand, hesitating to answer. “Nothing.” 

She looked to his face in response, surprised. She had been ready to scold whatever answer he came up with, whatever way he chose to defend his actions. 

He pushed himself upwards in the chair, his best imitation of standing tall and steadfast. “I thought to be acting on the behalf of something other than myself, something larger. I don’t think I was.”

“You told me so, the first night you came to me in my dreams.” She accused him. “That I should just do as you said. And even if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered, would it? You had already made sure they’d get me anyway.”

His depressed eyes were revealing. “I had, yes.”

“Did you even care for me? Could you have been sure that I wouldn’t have gotten raped? It was only luck that Jon came by at Craster’s.”

“I did all I could to prevent it.”

“Evidently not!” She spouted, rising from the bed in anger. “You could just have kept me here, Bran. I wanted to be here, with you. My sword was yours, and even that you took from me.”

“I knew you would be safe. I had seen you come to safety. And when I doubted, even in the slightest, I stepped in, making sure their attention was somewhere else!”

When the wildling Osha and she had been contesting who was the best to skin rabbits, Bran had shouted at them to settle. That was the only time she could remember him ever doing it. He never was one for confrontation.   
She had suspected it was him who had done it, making that one rebel suddenly attack the others. As with before, she found it difficult to judge his action to do so. 

“And I would do it again.”

“If you would, then was I down there and not behind Winterfell walls?”

Bran swallowed, becoming nervous. He grabbed his legs, rustling them while looking at her. “This.” He rustled them again. “Is why I did it. Because of hate, both for him and myself.”

Meera wondered a little before realising. “Jaime?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. It was a memory I had repressed and I had focused on being the Three-Eyed Raven instead. My broken legs didn’t matter.”

“They still don-“

“But then he came waltzing here, to my home. I dreamt I saw him dying and there was little else I wanted.”

“Then didn’t you just have him executed right away?”

“That hadn’t been part of the dream. You know what was.” 

‘So he sacrificed him to have me saved’ she thought with what was close to disgust. He had attempted to replicate what he’d seen. But something wasn’t adding up. “You told me it hadn’t become true, your vision.”

His hand began to shake and his breath turned heavy. “Do you know what happened to Jaime?”

“I presumed the worst.”

“No, you didn’t. You presumed him to be dead.”

Meera was getting irritated at his constant vagueness. “I know you might’ve hated him with the passion of a burning star, but I had decided to allow him to do his best anyhow. It might seem preferable to you that he’s dead, but…. But not to me, and neither to Brienne! It was the worst for me to presume.”

“He is dead. That part is true.” His lower lip began trembling suddenly, his mouth turning downwards. “It did happen though, my vision.”

Even though she was almost disappointed in herself, she couldn’t help it – seeing her little prince sad would always bring her down. She placed her hand on his, firmly yet comforting. ‘You do not choose who you love.'

“I’m so sorry, Meera.” He continued, his voice cracking. “I never intended for it to go that way, I assure you. You made him show something of him I didn’t want to see.”

“What it is, Bran?”

“It’s his death. It’s my fault. I didn’t want to have him killed. But when I saw he didn’t die, when he saved you from the rebels…”

She allowed him to pause. Interrupting or commenting would be superfluous. It was annoying that he wouldn’t just tell her, but even more worrying. Her hand clenched his tighter. 

“And with those men of Littlefinger’s, I – I didn’t know what to do. I had to do something.”

“You sent my father and his men.”

“Y-yes. He found Jaime.” He looked up at her, hopeless. “Alive.”

‘Alive?’ she thought. “You just said Jaime’s dead.”

He gulped. “Yes. He is. He fought off those you saw him fight when you fled. But he was exhausted, and then your father came to him…”

Meera had grown a suspicion but hoped it wasn’t true. 

“And killed him.”

“Oh…” It was a pathetic response, considering the weight of what he had said. But there really was little else to say. Her father couldn’t have known better, of course. To him, Jaime had simply been the same old Kingslayer, sisterfucker, guilty of assault on his closest friend and would-be murderer of the son of the same. 

“I fulfilled the vision myself. I don’t know what that makes me.” He said, looking to Meera for answers. 

She quickly gathered herself – her prince needed saving. “It doesn’t make you any less, or nothing more – you remain you, Bran.”

With desperate eyes, he grabbed her other forearm. Without resistance, she let him pull her closer. Slowly. Their faces neared each other. So were their lips, Meera noticed. For some reason, right up until they met, she continued to focus on this fact.   
Only when they had parted again did she realise it had released something inside. A part which struggled to let go of the meeting, that didn’t want it to end, even if the kiss wasn’t like the ones imagined in songs. But it was true, which was more than could be said about those from the songs.

“I’m sor-“ he began, but Meera cut him off by shaking her head. She had reached her destination – she was finally safe behind the walls of Winterfell. 

A knock came on the door. “Bran?” the female voice spoke, almost demanded. 

Meera seated herself on the other chair by the table. “Come in, Sansa,” Bran said with a flushed face. 

Entering through the door was an appalled Queen Stark, but just as bewildered. Still, she had a stern look about her, expressing a level of seriousness and firmness Meera could never dream of having. It was suitable for a queen, Meera thought, something she hopefully never got to be. Not requesting any comfort, Sansa remained standing. 

“I’m glad you’re here too, Meera.” She quickly said, now turning to address her brother. “Littlefinger’s spoken with me. About what happened, why Jaime Lannister hasn’t come back with Meera. He tells me that he ordered his men kill him, but that they must’ve been ambushed somewhere along the way. He apologises, saying he attempted to act in the interest of Winterfell. I told him I believed him, but, needless to say, I doubt him. Very much.” She turned back to Meera. “You can tell me what happened, Meera. Please.”

“Littlefinger’s a liar and traitor.” She staunchly proclaimed. “Why yes, he had ordered his men to kill Jaime, but me as well. Convenient of him to exclude that part.”

“You were brought home by one of his,” Sansa asked, but far from suspiciously. “Then again, that man was slain almost immediately upon return.”

Bran held the letter in his hand, handing it to Meera. She glanced at it, recognising it as the one Arya had shown her before she left.

“What is that?” Sansa asked. 

“I think you’ll know quite well,” Meera admitted bluntly, the spite in her voice rooting in her distaste for sibling rivalry. 

“She won’t recognise it at all,” Bran said, his words directed at Meera. “It’s not her hand that led the pen.”

Sansa reached for it, studying it with intensity. Her eyes dilated the further she read and it became clear to Meera what that letter actually was. She looked to Bran for confirmation, which she received in a nod. 

“Littlefinger wrote that.” Bran stated. “Placed it in a locked drawer in your solar for Arya to find it.”

“I could never have written this,” Sansa said, baffled. “And you say it’s the reason why Arya’s left Winterfell, her home?”

“Why didn’t you tell her, Bran?” Meera questioned. 

“It was a mistake – one amongst many.” He confessed. “But she knows now.”

“So she’ll come home?” 

“Yes.”

“She won’t like if Littlefinger is still around when she returns.”

“Littlefinger tricked our father into imprisonment and execution, Sansa. He murdered Jon Arryn. He was behind the War of the Five Kings, and now he’s at Winterfell, using you to help himself.” Bran suddenly and coldly stated. Meera couldn’t help but feel peculiarly proud. 

Sansa darkened at the new-gained knowledge. She obviously already had her suspicions toward him, but this seemed to reach a different level. “A-are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, sister. Not any longer.”

Surprisingly, the Queen of the North managed to keep a somewhat straight face and even straighter mind. “Tomorrow.” She said. “Tomorrow we put an end to him. I order Brienne to kill him and it’s over.”

Bran and Meera held hands as Sansa exited the room. It felt peaceful, knowing they’d order his execution the following day, despicable and tasteless as it may seem. But he, if any, had it coming.   
Their eyes met once again. His eyes were captivating, more so than they had been before. Meera knew, then, that she wanted to be at his side. 

“It’s getting late,” Bran said, breaking a silence which had lasted for many minutes. “I think I’ll need to rest now.”

Meera didn’t accept the implication. Helping him undress and making sure he was well was hardly the worst thing they had experienced together. But as she did this, it felt different. It all had a different light. Perhaps it was the kiss before; perhaps it was the peaceful feeling of relief inside her. It was altered, yes, but only for the better.

“Thank you, Meera. For everything.” 

“It is only my duty, my prince.” She teased. Again, Meera didn’t like the prospect of obliging the implied. “I don’t want to sleep by myself tonight, Bran.”

He got nervous again, but on much less serious ground than earlier. But as she undressed into nothing but her underclothes and tunic, he didn’t order her to leave. She wanted to be with him, and he with her.   
They lay close, snuggling. She felt the dark comfort of sleep taking over, feeling satisfied for once. Neither of them said a thing, both understood; they were there for each other.

Meera felt something poking her. Shocked for several reasons, she was uncertain of what to say. This was the closest she’d ever gotten to the alien world of intercourse.

“Bran…” she said, winning the attention of a very sleepy prince. “Y-you’re… hard.” In a very courageous move, Meera pushed slightly against it to make him realise what she meant. He gave no response.

“I am?” he said, sad.


	13. Chapter X

Much to Meera’s disturbance, she was awoken from her well-earned night’s rest. Sitting back against the stack of pillows, Bran wore a focused face. It was his hand which had woken her from her sleep, but it had quickly retreated back to himself. She sat up close to him, a comforting hand resting on his shoulder. At first, she thought he would comment the awkward incident just before they had fallen asleep, but she realised his worry stemmed from something vastly graver.   
His head turned to look down at her. Though the protection of a man had hardly been a highly prioritised desire throughout her life, it felt comforting nonetheless – even with the knowledge that he physically couldn’t.

“Littlefinger doesn’t plan to wait until tomorrow,” he said. “He’s aware you know the truth of that quest to rescue you.”

Meera failed to see the big problem. “Can’t we just have him executed before he does anything?”

“We should have, but that’s too late now,” Bran said in an oddly determined tone. “He’s stirring up Winterfell.”

“What’s he doing?” she asked. As Bran was about to answer, shouting could be heard from outside the inner walls. They both cast a short glance at the nearby window in response. 

“He’s taking advantage of Brienne.” He said, pausing before explaining. “Exploiting the death of Jaime.”

Meera was instantly angered, despising him more than she thought herself able to. She could think of no other man to commit such malicious act – even several of her former captors had higher morals. Without hesitation, or care for Bran seeing her dress, she rose from the bed and began to do so. She didn’t know what to immediately do, but she knew action was required. They couldn’t let Littlefinger just act out his will. 

“Where are you going?” Bran asked, being deliberately naïve. Of course he knew. 

“We have to do something, don’t we?” she aggressively asked, firmly fastening her belt in a rapid movement.

“Arya is just outside Winterfell, Meera. She’ll come and help.” He argued. “She fights better than any of the men currently in Winterfell.”

“Then I’ll go find her,” Meera promptly answered. “Your sister can hardly know what’s going on, no?”

“One of my ravens can find her for me, with a letter.” He tried. His persistence annoyed her and she didn’t need any more of that on top of it all. There was little she could argue against his statement however, leaving her frustrated. Winterfell was resting on thin ice and she was being denied assisting. Bran’s determined face suddenly softened. “I’m sorry, Meera. My ravens are locked in their tower – his doing, naturally.”

“Sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have lied to you about it,” he apologised. “But I don’t think you should go, Meera.”

“Why not, Bran? Something has to be done, whatever it is.”

His eyes gained the sincerity she had missed in years. “It’s us, especially you, he’s after. It’s dangerous, Meera. I don’t want you to be in danger.”

‘Stupid Stark’ she thought with restraint. Finally, when he’s just learned something, he decides to show it at the most ill-timed situation imaginable. The thought forced a brief smile on her lips and she went closer to him. “Bran, we need to act. Please, let me find Arya and tell her,” she pleaded with as much emotion she could. His eyes attempted to flee hers but were unsuccessful. 

“She’s hiding with Gendry in the small forest a few miles East,” he admitted. “She’s been waiting there two days, waiting for my call.”

She smiled shyly at him, her way of thanking him. “Why’s she waiting?”

“It doesn’t matter now. But tell her the plan still holds.”

She was now all dressed in light scale and leather armour, ready to leave the room. “What plan?”

“We were going to kill him either way, Littlefinger. She’ll tell you what.” He said, looking longingly at her as she went to the door. “Make sure Sansa knows what is happening. That’s paramount.”

The remark confused Meera, but she made sure to remember it. “You’re saying she doesn’t?”

“She can’t right now, she’s locked in her chambers. But make sure to tell her.”

Meera opened the door, casting back a teasing glance at her prince. “Can you manage without me?”

“Just don’t make it last as long as I did.”

 

 

Steel was hitting steel, a confused atmosphere clouded in the dark of night elevated the fear Meera, and likely everybody else felt. The continuously falling snow did what it could to illuminate the castle, but its struggle didn’t do much. It was relentless, not allowing the peace it could’ve brought to the situation. Even to the North, those who lived with it winter through summer, it wasn’t a friend.   
Meera crouched as she stepped out of the Great Keep. Fortunately, there wasn’t long from its door to the East Gate, but danger was looming. Littlefinger’s subtle attempt to have her follow him stood clear in her memory. As she approached the gate, it became clear that most, if not all, soldiers had gone to the courtyard, to the fight. How he could have composed this sudden battle between men serving under the same queen remained a marvel to Meera. But he had done it, the bastard, and oddly, as she now exited through the east gate, no sense of protection was lost.   
Although she’d never been to that particular forest, she knew there to be a path in its direction buried beneath at least a feet of snow. With limited transport coming in and out of Winterfell, the path suffered from a layer of snow almost as thick as the ones on the plains beside it. 

Armed with determination, she finally fought her way through the blowing snow, finding the noise of fight gradually replaced with the howls of wind. Once she got within the cover of the small forest, she lowered her arms. 

“Arya?!” She called out loudly. 

There was no reaction. It seemed that the branches nestled in response, but she knew it to be the wind. Meera called once more, but with similar results. At least it seemed so until a hard, thin dart was placed on her back.

“It’s just me, Arya,” she explained. “You know I’m not trying to trick you.”

The pointy end was removed from her back as Arya sheathed her sword. “Why are you here?”

“Fighting has broken out in Winterfell, between the Vales and the Northerners.” Meera began, following Arya as she went to a seemingly specific tree. “Littlefinger’s behind it.”

“Of course he is, the cunt. He’s always behind something.” She said, halting her words suddenly. Meera, slightly ashamedly, admired her choice of words. She could never dream to utter that word openly, even as unorthodox as Meera was. But Arya saw no shame, no reason to hesitate to voice her true opinion of the man. Meera felt the same about him and found satisfaction that another lady dared say it. “I suppose I have to… Apologise.”

Meera was perplexed, her mind caught off guard. “For what?”

“When I showed you that letter. There was no reason for me to be rude and insult you.”

“It’s alright, Arya. You didn’t mean it.”

The stubborn Stark turned to Meera with a serious expression. “No, perhaps not. I shouldn’t have said it regardless.” She said, genuinely yet uncomfortably. They continued walking. 

“Bran sent me,” Meera said. “Winterfell’s in danger, Arya. He counted on your help.”

“Why hasn’t he sent for me earlier?”

“I do not know – I only arrived yesterday.”

“And already you’re carrying out work for House Stark once more.”

Slightly taken back by the forced realisation, it still wasn’t Meera’s perspective. Her loyalty to House Stark remained. “It’s my duty to do so.”

Arya was clearly about to object but was beaten to it by a man’s voice behind her. “Don’t expect her to understand her, Meera. She’s of the house herself,” it joked. 

“Does that exclude me from having a say on the duties of its subjects?” She sharply inquired. “I thought it was the other way around.”

“It is, but their minds are their own, no matter how hard you try.” Gendry smiled, deliberately annoying Arya. The smith had a welcoming face, one that did its best to stay positive. An impressive feat, his company considered. “Does Lord Bran need our help?”

“Winterfell does.” Meera firmly confirmed. “He said that the plan still holds. Whatever that may contain.”

“That can hardly be true. We had a specific plan. If there is a battle happening at Winterfell, it can’t.”

“It’s what he said. And Littlefinger has to be stopped, as I’m sure you’d agree.” Meera argued, seeing Arya wonder. Gendry began preparing their departure from the woods. 

“I was to gain the trust of him, by using the face of his soldiers. I can still take a face.”

“Take a face?”

“Something I learned in Essos. I kill a man, I can take on his appearance.”

That was just about the scariest thing Meera had ever heard but dared not speak against it. “I suppose you should do that, then…” she agreed, not having anything better to say. The first step had been taken.

 

 

Killing the soldier seemed scarily routine for Arya. Gendry had, daringly, distracted one guard who had strayed off. The end of his life had gone quickly; a quick distraction by a tossed stone, a sword to the throat and a stab. Arya had then pulled out a dagger, and despite being a relatively hardened lady, Meera had to look away and think of something else as Arya began cutting. The mere thought was disgusting. 

Meera shouldn’t be surprised to see it work. Beyond the Wall, surrounded by monsters of ice and snow, she had seen things far more magical and astounding. But such capabilities belonged to non-humans, Bran excluded, and hadn’t dreamt one could completely take the form of another. The short and slight Arya had been replaced with a moderately tall man with a scruffy beard and neck-long brown hair, more muscular and intimidating than Arya – that is, only if you didn’t know her already. 

“What does it… Feel like? Being someone else?”

“Quite the same as being yourself.”

She didn’t believe her, she couldn’t, but there were other things to take care of now. 

Gendry had been ordered by Arya to stay hidden, while Meera and she took care of the problem. Naturally, he had been annoyed by this, as would any – but seeing the logic, he had reluctantly agreed. 

“So now what’s the plan?” Arya, still in the form of a matured soldier, asked. 

“Bran said it’s important Sansa knows what’s going on.”

“What does she have to do it? We wouldn’t want to have her wake from her beauty sleep.” Arya harshly answered. Meera wondered why Arya had forgiven her so easily, but not her sister. Maybe their rivalry ran deeper. 

“He didn’t tell me, but he told me it was paramount.”

“My sister will be safe and sound whenever Littlefinger’s in charge.” Arya stated with subtle spite guiding her words. “We go to my brother, he’ll know where Littlefinger is.”

“I don’t think it’s her safety he was worried about.” Meera insisted. “I think it was Winterfell’s.”

Begrudgingly, Arya agreed. 

The fighting was still heated. Meera wondered how many more soldiers that could possibly be left to lose their lives for whatever stupid reason Littlefinger had planted. Shouts and screams were made, some hateful, some frightful, others both. While Arya might not even notice them any longer, the horror they produced would never cease from Meera’s ears.   
The inner castle was unguarded. They still progressed silently towards her chambers, taking precaution not to be spotted, should guards show up. When they closed in on Sansa’s chambers, they Arya pulled her sword and placed a halting hand on Meera’s shoulder.

“We can’t let them see you. They’d kill you.” Arya rightfully said.

“Take me as prisoner, then.” Meera responded, a plan which had suddenly occurred in her head. “Tell them it’s on Littlefinger’s orders.”

Arya nodded at the idea, agreeing. She stepped behind Meera and grabbed her left wrist with no hesitation, bringing it on her back. Meera’s right wrist complied, though not too keen on the roughness they were treated with. But it was for the best, anyway – exposure couldn’t be afforded. 

Two guards stood by Sansa’s door, their weapons ready. Arya’s sword was unsheathed, too, placed threateningly behind Meera. It was the sudden confusion in the two guards’ faces that made her realise how poorly executed their plan actually was. 

“See Rurn, told you we’d catch the Crannog sometime. Well done, Tarlik. Where’d find her?”

Arya, or Tarlik, didn’t answer immediately and Meera knew the two of them were thinking the same. Though, even when confined to their own minds, Arya’s choice of words was probably still a tad harsher. 

“’Caught her attempting to go through the Eastern Gate,” Arya replied. The accent was painstakingly unlike theirs. 

The one who’d spoken wondered for a small bit. “Why’re you bringing her here? Littlefinger is with Lord Stark. Said he wants ‘em together. Dunno why, though.”

“He told me to bring her here.” Arya quickly responded, probably having realised the problem herself. Rurn raised his sword further and exchanged suspicious glances, but whatever they were thinking couldn’t be half as bad as Littlefinger being with Bran. The idea, especially under these circumstances, wildly worried Meera, as she started to regret not having gone to him first.

“Why?” Rurn suddenly inquired, suspicion poisoning his voice. His eyes turned to Meera.

“Dunno why, though.” Arya said, doing her attempt at replicating their way of speaking. She had the voice, but the authenticity was lacking. The two accepted the slick response, with Rurn stepping closer to Meera while the other fiddled with some keys.

“Amazing how you managed to keep from ripping her clothes off on the way, Tarlik. That’s must be a first, eh?”

Suddenly, Meera didn’t feel bad for the death of Tarlik.

Sansa sat behind her large desk, frustrated and confused. Even when evidently rushed from bed, her ladylike aura was impressive, commanding a sense of authority through determined body language. When she saw it was Meera ‘Arya’ had as prisoner, her eyes dilated with frightful anger. “What is going on?”

Meera looked to see if the door was closed. “It’s Littlefinger. His stirring up the entirety of Winterfell, his men against ours.” She hastily said, hoping to make sense. Arya had been about to answer her sister, but Meera decided to step in, not trusting the words of Arya when speaking with Sansa. “Brienne is involved too.”

Sansa rose from her chair, looking at Arya. “Did he order Meera over here?”

“It’s your little sister, Your Grace,” Arya replied harshly, emphasising the last bit. “I’m back.”

“What’re you… You’re not…” Sansa mumbled until she realised. “You’ve stolen that man’s face. Killed him.”

“Yes I have, sister. It wasn’t one of our own, though, I assure you.”

“Bran said you’d return,” Sansa said before sighing. “I’m glad you did.”

The statement seemingly took Arya by surprise. At least, she didn’t have a response, instead looking awkwardly around the room. Meera took the word. “Bran told me that you needed to know what’s going on, but left out why. But something needs to be done, quickly.”

“Littlefinger came to me not long ago, telling me that an attack had occurred. That a bunch of rebels and Bolton-supporters had come to kill me, and he locked me in here for that reason. I, of course, knew it wasn’t the truth, but the guards outside the door wouldn’t listen.”

“He’s with Bran now. We need him to be safe” Meera said, announcing a worry with such universality she could hardly be alone in having. 

“You shouldn’t just have left.” The words came flying from Sansa’s mouth. “I know why you did, but I never, not once, heard from you. What if you had confronted me with that letter? We wouldn’t be in this situation. But of course you hadn’t in mind to think of that, you just had to keep following whatever your immediate feelings told you to.”

Again, Arya continued to ignore her sister. 

“Do you know how much it hurt? To see you the way you had become? Jon and I had been missing you all these years, and you turn up with such… hostility?” Sansa continued, letting go of what she had obviously kept to herself for long. “It didn’t help, not anything or anyone, not one bit.” Her rant ended. After a moment’s silence, she gathered herself. “But we ought to focus on the present. Did Bran have a plan?”

“N-no… No other than you had to know.” The battle outside could still be heard loud and clear, the screams echoing. “We have to stop the fighting somehow.” She continued searching for a solution. “You of all people must have some smear on Littlefinger. Something to turn them on him.”

Sansa suddenly brightened up. “Arya, open the door for the guards.”

Reluctantly, Arya followed orders. Perhaps the scolding had had an effect. She gestured them to enter, which they did. Both appeared confused.

“What are your orders?”

“Our orders are to keep you safe, my Queen.”

“And to obey my bidding.”

“Lord Baelish specifically gave us instru-“

“Instructions you will forget because I tell you to. Lord Baelish answers to me, and I do not care whatever babble it is he’s spoiled you with. Did any of you serve Jon Arryn? Or his late wife?”

“Both of us did, your Grace. Served him the best we could until his last breath.”

“What do they say about his death? And that of his wife?”

“He was poisoned by the Lannisters, of course. And Lady Arryn tossed herself out the moon door. You’ve said so yourself, your Grace.”

“I did, yes, when I was still naïve and fragile. Tell me, my good men, do I look fragile now?”

They both shook their heads. 

“Then trust me when I say that Littlefinger is behind both of their deaths.”

“Wha-“ they almost uttered in unison, baffled. “That can’t be true, your Grace.”

“What would I gain from lying to you now?” The Queen inquired. ‘There was something to be admired in both of the Stark daughters,’ Meera thought. “Littlefinger’s a liar and a scoundrel. I was going to announce this on the morrow, but the circumstances force me to do it now. Now, are you loyal to Littlefinger, or the entire Northern Alliance?”

 

 

With the two guards convinced, or intimidated, Sansa had gone outside with them, seeking to end the conflict. Meanwhile, Arya and Meera were headed to Bran’s chambers. They had decided to play the same trick as before, with Arya pretending to have captured Meera.   
The closer they got to his room, the faster her heart raced. After all, she didn’t know what he’d done to Bran, or exactly what awaited her behind the door. All she knew was that they were going to get him. After they had knocked and Arya had answered with her new-gained deep voice, Littlefinger told them to enter. 

Littlefinger smirked as he saw ‘Tarlik’ with Meera as if he now finally had them both within his grip. He sat beside Bran’s bed, both of whom were calm as if they’d had a civil discussion.

“Well done, Tarlik,” he satisfactorily said, nodding in in Meera’s direction “You may leave now. I’ll find you a suitable reward after all this is over.”

Meera glanced over her shoulder at Arya, but her look was directed at Bran, searching for assistance. Only, Bran nodded slowly without Baelish noticing, signalling his sister to do as she was told. Arya made an awkward bow before hesitantly exiting the room.

“So… Where were you going, Meera? It doesn’t seem like you to abandon your beloved.” He sarcastically said with that knowing smirk of his. “Not twice, anyway.”

“I was searching for you.”

“In that case, you could just have stayed with him. Would’ve spared us all some time, wouldn’t it?”

Meera shrugged, unsure whether or not he believed her part lie. “Why did you attempt to kill me?”

“The same reason all of this is happening right now – you are simply aware of too much.” Littlefinger explained with a tone as if he could convince Meera. “I can’t have you tell your sister. But I suppose you already had that figured out. Do you remember the offer I gave you?”

“I do.” She nodded. Bran kept a cool face, continuously looking at Meera. If it was deliberate or not, it comforted her. 

“The offer does still stand. Or, well, not so much an offer any longer.”

“What makes you think we’ll agree?”

“I’m not seeking an agreement. I’m seeking compliance. I want you to leave Winterfell, go south and live your life at Greywater Watch. Tell your sister that you decided to leave Winterfell in her hands, and don’t mention this ever again. It is then my promise to never touch you again.”

“Why should we trust you?”

Surprisingly fast, Littlefinger pulled a knife from his coat. “It’s rebels who are attacking us, is it not? Seeking to damage House Stark?” he smirked, drawing the knife closer to Bran, who stayed calm. “They’d want to hurt every Stark they got their hands on, wouldn’t they?”

“And if we went South, wouldn’t these ‘rebels’ simply find us anyway?”

He smiled. “They don’t have to.”

“You have no credibility, Baelish,” Meera stated. She was frankly insulted that he trusted she would buy the fake offer. It was an undermining thought, but she believed her confidence stemmed from knowing the outcome of this. “You’ve attempted to kill me once, you’ll only attempt to again.”

“I am not a follower of violence, my lady. Quite the opposite.” He pointed at the letter he had written for Arya to find. “You did read my letter, no?”

“You’ve just started a battle within the walls of your Queen’s home. That only tells me you like it.”

“There are regrettable necessities in getting Queen Sansa to sit on top of Westeros. I’ve only ever helped House Stark, just as you have, Lady Meera. The only reason she can now call herself Queen is because of me. Soon, she will be the regent of the re-established alliance from the Rebellion, owning half of Westeros. Not that entire letter was untrue, my lady. I’m building a Westeros for the Starks. Isn’t that what you’d like to see as well?”

“I’d like to see a Winterfell for the Starks.”

“I’m afraid Sansa have different views. And she is Queen, after all.”

“You’re right.” Bran suddenly broke in, making the two others in the room turn heads. “But Sansa is quite capable herself – she doesn’t need your assistance to maintain it.”

“Leave that to me.” He replied bitterly. “Tarlik, come back in.”

Meera’s eyes went to Bran’s. They both knew that finally, peace was at hand. The door opened behind her as Arya entered. 

“I’ll offer you once more. Are you sure you don’t wish to go south?”

Meera and Bran’s eyes continued to be intertwined, not giving Littlefinger an answer.

“Tarlik, I’m glad you were the one to be with me. It would seem that both of these have a death wish.”

Of course, there was no reaction from ‘Tarlik’. A warm feeling filled Meera’s belly.

“Kill them both.”

“Open the window, Lord Baelish,” Bran said, still not leaving sight of Meera. “There is something you should know.”

Oddly, Baelish listened to Bran’s request and went to open the window. The icy wind flowed through the hole in the walls it had created, making goose bumps appear all over Meera’s body as it met the contrasting breeze. 

“You don’t hear a thing, do you?” Bran asked, this time looking at Littlefinger while doing so. “There is no more fighting outside. Do you think the rebels were defeated?”

Meera didn’t have to look at him to sense his frightful face as he realised his defeat. 

“After all, Lord Baelish, knowledge is indeed power.”

 

 

“Long live the Queen!” Lyanna Mormont shouted, raising her glass of heavily honeyed wine.

“Long live the Queen!” was the response from the rest of the Great Hall. 

The Great Hall was filled to the brim, with lords and ladies and knights from all three parts of Queen Sansa’s kingdom. They had finally returned, successfully, from warring and subduing in the Riverlands, cementing it under Sansa’s reign. It had been two moons since Littlefinger was announced an enemy of the North and subsequently summarily executed. It was news all welcomed upon their return to Winterfell. It created happiness as Westeros approached winter.  
It wasn’t a large feast. Sansa had ordered limitations on the served food, arguing most of it would be needed for the winter. She was congratulated many times throughout the feast, as they came to the dais, thanking her for her successful reign and prayed for a short winter. Every time they mentioned the forthcoming winter, Bran, sitting left to Meera, twitched slightly. He knew it wouldn’t be short. 

It had taken time to be where they were now. Meera sometimes slept in Bran’s chambers with him, but still needed time for herself most nights. He respected that and rarely asked her for much. She had gotten him to eat along with everyone else each night, and he had slowly started speaking with others, no longer confining to himself and Meera. Still, it was her he was closest with. When they were all alone, when they had peace for themselves, they told each other stories. Bran knew all of them, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to hear Meera tell them. Slowly, and in contrast to winter, he was beginning to thaw. 

“We ought to establish a stronger connection between Winterfell and Greywater, your Grace. Your father always wanted to do so, and I doubt the Freys will stand in way of that much longer.”

Meera had not even noticed her father at the feast. He knew he would be coming, of course, but had been too occupied with Bran and her thoughts. Before Meera had risen, Howland came to her. 

“Meera! My beloved daughter!”

Giddy with excitement, she rose from the seat and jumped to embrace him properly. The laughter and cheering from the feast only amplified the happiness of reunion. 

They parted after a long hug. “It’s been far too long, father.”

“It most definitely has. I’m sure the Starks are taking good care of you, though. I know Ned would’ve for me.” He said, smiling just as much as herself. 

“They are, of course they are,” she smiled back. “Where’s mother?”

“Mother stayed at the Greywater to keep an eye on things. You know how she dislikes anything else but the Neck,” Howland remarked, now looking at Bran. “Glad to finally meet you, Lord Brandon. Jojen spoke of you a great deal. I thank you.”

Meera smiled, but a tiny point started nagging her. Jaime’s death had occurred two moons past, and Bran had continued to say it was her father who had killed him. “Father, there is something I need to ask you about.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and Howland stepped closer to hear his daughter. “That night… When Bran had warned you. He’s said that you found Jaime and that you… Killed him.”

Father seemed confused. 

“Is it true?”

“Yes, it is. I was surprised to find him there, but I didn’t object. The scum had it coming a long time ago.”

Meera opened her mouth to object herself, but was interrupted before she could say a thing. 

“Meera,” Bran said, looking firm. “Not now.”

“What’s wrong, Meera?” Howland asked. 

She turned to look at him. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. We’ll speak later, right?”

“Naturally.” Howland agreed. 

She sat back down in her chair, having unwillingly done her husband-to-be’s bidding. She made sure her face wasn’t soft. “What was that for?”

“Jaime will always be the Kingslayer, nothing will ever change that. That’s why I haven’t had his body gathered.”

“He deserves more than to rot in the snow, even with all he’s done.” She wasn’t afraid to speak openly of her opinion of him, despite his deeds to Bran. 

“I wholeheartedly agree. But the rest of the North doesn’t. Let it stay that way; let him be the scapegoat for whatever they want. It’s the most honourable thing we can do to him.”

“How is that in any way honourable? He’ll be disdained for the generations to come, the title Kingslayer will be applied to all without honour. He’ll be the villain in children’s games, the lowest of the low. Even your father thought that.”

“My father didn’t get everything right.” He said. The statement shocked Meera, never having anticipated to ever hear that from him. “In many regards, he was, yes. But we ought to honour Jaime’s memory the same way my father honoured his sister’s; simply by knowing and acknowledging it ourselves.”

Meera couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve thought of that in a long time, haven’t you?”

Bran smiled back. “I have, wife-to-be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda the end of the story. There will only be a small epilogue to wrap it all up as the 14th chapter, so don't expect a full-blown final chapter.


	14. Epilogue

Jojen was far better with the bow than he himself had been at 11. His son could actually hit the target. Eddard, however, wasn’t doing too good. His arrows always missed, and he dropped his sword during training, despite Arya not hitting particularly hard. Bran’s sister had taken the responsibility of training his sons, with the condition that Gendry be made the blacksmith of Winterfell. Bran had happily obliged.  
Even though they were twins, and boys both too, they were not alike nor looked much like each other. Eddard would much rather stay inside, reading and writing, whereas Jojen could never get enough of swinging a sword. 

Jojen’s arrow hit the third ring from the middle. The boy with his mother’s curly hair turned to see his father’s reaction. “You’re doing well, Jojen. Keep that up and you’ll be better than Mother in no time, just see.” Encouraged and proud, Jojen returned to his archery. 

Maester Samwell had begun heading to Bran. He was going to inform her of Sansa’s arrival, even though he knew Bran was aware. They had begun to ignore this fact though, a decision made by Meera and him, in order for him to be treated more like a lord and less like an all-knowing being.   
Sansa would be returning to Winterfell from Riverrun. The castle of their mother had turned more and more central to her kingdom, practically, though not officially, making it the capital. 

Sam stood five feet on his left. “Queen Sansa has arrived, my lord.” 

Bran waited till his son had shot once more. “Jojen!”

The boy turned around, raising an arm to block the sun from his eyes. 

“Your aunt is here.”

His son reminded him of his sister, as he jokingly took another arrow from the quiver. He cast a quick teasing glance as the bow was drawn. 

“Head inside now, Jojen. I trust you haven’t forgotten the occasion.”

He lowered his bow. “No, Father.”

An arrow flew across the yard as Samwell pushed his chair towards the Great Hall. The boy sure did take from Arya.

“How is the writing faring, Samwell?”

“Oh, it’s been going quite well, as matter of fact. A bit busy in these days, though,” he answered, now leaning his head closer to Bran’s. “I don’t suppose you’ll have much time to assist tonight, right?”

“Not tonight, but tomorrow maybe.”

“It’s an incredible thing you’re doing, Lord Stark. It’s… It will be pivotal for future generations. Not many believed in the White Walkers till they saw them. We have to make sure our successors will know of them as well,” he said. “You’ll be the hero of it all too, Lord Stark. That war could never have been won without you.”

Bran resented the idea of being considered a hero. Those titles belonged to Jon, his father, Robb. “Let’s just hope they won’t need its contents for practical reasons.”

Samwell chuckled. “Sure, of course not.” He then misunderstood Bran. “You… Do you know if they will?”

“Not that I am aware.” Bran assured his maester. 

They reached the Great Hall, which stood prepared for a feast fit for the queen who had arrived. Servants were running in and out of the entrances, fully occupied. It had actually been Meera who was slightly against the extravagance for a 15th nameday, but Bran had insisted that their firstborn should not be spared many expenses, if any.  
The sight of his family, gathered in Winterfell, warmed his once cold heart. With two of his children missing, one having her hair braided and the other shooting arrows, only one of them could be excused for their absence. 

“Arya,” he called, gaining the attention of her as well as the others. “I think Jojen needs a word from his aunt. Or rather, his mentor.”

“Are you sure he’ll come if you send her?” Sansa interrupted, smirking. “I thought you knew the two.”

“He should come; it’s his sister’s nameday.” Eddard spat. The firstborn of the twins, Eddard remained ever jealous of his brother. What boy wouldn’t be? Jojen could practically fight with a dull sword before Eddard had learned to draw a bow. They rarely trained together for that reason, but Eddard suspicously always offered Jojen to study along with him. He would always say the answer to Bran’s or Samwell’s question as if they were obvious, but Jojen didn’t care and took it with a smile. The boy was blessed with the patience of his namesake. “He can’t just ignore the presence of his whole family.”

“No he can’t, but you can’t berate him either.” His mother said, sending a smile to Bran afterwards. “Brienne, would you mind fetching him?”

“Of course not, Lady Stark.” The lady knight bowed and left. She had arrived with Sansa, and was the longest-serving member of her Queensguard. Had it not been for the favour of House Stark, she surely would’ve been ostracised from the North – Bran had seen and heard many talk badly of her. Her known bond with Jaime damaged her reputation, but Sansa did everything she could to maintain it. 

“Father, look what aunt Sansa gave me!” his youngest daughter came running to him saying. She had a small silver brooch of a wolf in her hand. She jumped on his lap without hesitation, almost shoving the brooch in his face, causing a laugh from him as well as others. 

“Really?” he said, taking the brooch in his hand to jokingly inspect it. “I think it looks silly.”

“It doesn’t!” Illara staunchly defended. “Look, it even has Stark written on it.” The back of the brooch was engraved with the words ‘House Stark’.

“Have you thanked your aunt for it?” 

Illara nodded vigorously. 

“Good,” he lifted her off him. “Now, remember to be nice to your sister. This is her day.”

“Yes, Father.” Illara ran back to hold her mother’s hand. 

Meera and Bran both were proud of their eldest child, their first daughter Lyanna. She acted like a lady but with the strength of her aunts and grandmother. Throughout the feast, she danced with those she wanted to, refused those she didn’t, smiling and laughing all the while. She was showered with gifts from lords from all three parts of the kingdom, enjoying the devotion she was shown. Bran could see it in her smile that she felt special this night, a thing he believed everyone had the right to feel now and again.  
As Eddard subtlety scolded his twin for sneaking wine in his cup, as Illara was offered dances and causing laughter, as Lyanna evoked admiration with her beauty, Bran felt what he hadn’t when making them.

Meera tightened her grip around his hand beneath the table, the same feeling pouring through their intertwined fingers and the loving gaze they shared. The raven’s nest had become its home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank you all dearly for reading the story, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Hope I didn't disappoint. 
> 
> \- MagnusAntoniusBarca


End file.
